UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF  CAPT.  AND  MRS. 
PAUL  MCBRIDE  PERIGORD 


UNIVEKSiTY  of 
AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


THE    HIGHER    COURT 


THE 
HIGHER   COURT 


BY 

MARY  STEWART  DAGGETT 

Author  of  "Mariposilla,"  "The  Broad  Aisle," 
"Chinese  Sketches,"  etc.,  etc. 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
BOSTON 


j.  o  p*  o.  '•v  \y 

5  y  *  • 


Copyright,  ipn,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 


Rights  Reserved 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


-PS 


To  Comrades  Three 
My  Daughters 

R.  D, 

H.  D.  H. 

M.  D. 


CHAPTER  I 

FATHER  BARRY'S  late  interview  with  his  bishop 
had  been  short,  devoid  of  controversy.  Too 
angry  to  deny  the  convenient  charge  of  "modern 
ism,"  he  sought  the  street.  Personal  appeal  seemed 
futile  to  the  young  priest  cast  down  by  the  will  of  a 
superior.  To  escape  from  holy,  overheated  apart 
ments  had  been  his  one  impulse.  Facing  a  January 
blizzard,  his  power  to  think  consecutively  returned, 
while  for  a  moment  he  faltered,  inclined  to  go  back. 
The  icy  air  struck  him  full  in  the  face  as  he  staggered 
forward.  "The  only  way  —  and  one  practically  hope 
less,"  he  choked.  Appeal  to  the  archbishop  ab 
sorbed  his  mind  as  he  pressed  on,  weighing  uncertain 
odds  of  ecclesiastical  favor.  Suddenly  he  realized 
that  he  had  strayed  from  main  thoroughfares,  was 
standing  on  a  desolate  bluff  that  rose  significantly  above 
colorless  bottom  lands  and  two  frozen  rivers.  Wind 
sharpened  to  steel,  with  miles  of  ceaseless  shifting, 
slashed  his  cheeks,  cut  into  his  full  temples,  his  eyes. 
He  bowed  before  the  gust  so  passionately  charged  with 
his  own  rebellion.  To-day  he  was  a  priest  only  in 
name.  For  the  first  time  since  his  assumption  of  orders 
he  faced  truth  and  a  miserable  pretense  to  Catholic 
discipline.  Desires  half  forgotten  stood  out,  duly 
exaggerated  by  recent  disappointment.  An  impulse 
sent  him  close  to  the  precipitous  ledge,  but  he  moved 


8  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

backward.  To  give  up  life  was  not  his  wish.  He  was 
defeated,  yet  something  held  him,  as  in  a  mirage  of 
fallen  hopes  he  saw  a  woman's  face  and  cried  out.  He 
had  done  no  wrong.  Until  the  bishop  cast  him  down 
he  was  confident,  able  to  justify  esthetic  joy  in  ritual 
istic  service,  which  took  the  place  of  a  natural  human 
tie.  Now  he  knew  that  his  work,  after  all,  but  expressed 
a  woman's  exquisite  charm.  For  through  plans  and 
absorbing  efforts  in  behalf  of  a  splendid  cathedral  he 
had  been  fooled  into  thinking  that  he  had  conquered 
the  disappointment  of  his  earlier  manhood.  The 
bishop  had  apparently  smiled  on  a  dazzling  achieve 
ment,  and  young  Father  Barry  plunged  zealously  into  a 
great  undertaking.  To  give  his  western  city  a  noble 
structure  for  posterity  became  a  ruling  passion,  and 
in  a  few  months  his  eloquence  in  the  pulpit,  together 
with  unremitting  personal  labor  on  plans  and  elevations, 
had  made  the  church  a  certainty.  Thousands  of 
dollars,  then  hundreds  of  thousands,  fattened  a  building 
fund.  The  bishop  appeared  to  be  pleased;  later  he 
was  astounded;  finally  he  grew  jealous  and  eager  to  be 
rid  of  the  priest  who  swayed  with  words  and  ruled 
where  a  venerable  superior  made  slight  impression. 
Consequently  the  charge  of  "modernism"  fell  like  a 
bolt  from  a  clear  sky.  Until  to-day  Father  Barry 
had  been  absorbed  in  one  idea.  His  cathedral  had 
taken  the  place  of  all  that  a  young  man  might  naturally 
desire.  When  the  woman  he  loved  became  free  he  still 
remained  steadfast  to  his  new  ambition.  It  seemed 
as  if  lost  opportunity  had  attuned  his  idealistic  nature 


9 


to  symbolic  love  which  could  express  in  visions  and 
latent  passion  an  actual  renunciation.  That  Isabel 
Doan  understood  and  rejoiced  in  the  mastery  of  his 
intellect  gave  him  unconscious  incentive.  In  the  place 
of  impossible  earthly  love  he  had  awakened  a  con 
sistent  dream.  Without  doubt  Mrs.  Doan's  pure 
profile  was  a  motif  for  classic  results.  When  he  spoke 
to  her  of  architectural  plans,  showing  drawings  for  a 
splendid  nave  and  superb  arches,  her  keen  appreciation 
always  sent  him  forward  with  his  work.  Then,  like 
true  inspiration,  visions  came  and  went.  Vista  effects, 
altars  bright  with  golden  treasures  stirred  him  to  con 
stant  endeavor.  He  heard  heavenly  music — the  best 
his  young,  rich  city  could  procure.  Day  and  night 
he  worked  and  begged.  Now  all  was  over.  For  the 
second  time  in  life  the  man  faced  hopeless  disappoint 
ment.  Deprived  of  work,  removed  from  the  large 
parish  that  for  three  years  had  hung  on  his  every  word 
and  wish,  the  priest  stood  adrift  in  the  storm.  The 
ignominy  of  his  downfall  swept  over  him  with  every 
lash  of  an  oncoming  blizzard.  He  seemed  to  feel 
the  end.  The  bishop's  untethered  brogue  still  clashed 
in  his  sensitive  ears.  The  city  he  loved,  now  ready 
for  the  best  of  everything,  no  longer  had  a  place  for 
him.  He  was  cast  out.  Below  him  spread  bottom 
lands,  dotted  for  miles  with  towering  grain  elevators, 
packing  plants,  and  wholesale  houses.  Vitals  of  trade 
lay  bare.  By  vivisection,  as  it  were,  he  traced  the  life 
of  commerce,  felt  gigantic  heart  beats  of  the  lower 
town  blending  interests  of  two  great  states.  In  all 


10  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

directions  rival  railroads  made  glistening  lines  through 
priceless  "bottoms."  Father  Barry  groaned.  Pro 
gress  seemed  to  taunt  his  acknowledged  failure.  He 
turned  his  back.  But  again  he  faced  promise.  Higher 
ledges  and  the  upper  town  retold  a  story  of  established 
growth.  On  every  hand  prosperity  saluted  him. 
Leading  from  bluffs,  the  city  reached  eastward  for 
miles.  As  far  as  he  could  see  domestic  roof  tops  defined 
the  course  of  streets.  Houses  crept  to  the  edge  of  a 
retail  district,  then  jumped  beyond.  On  waiting  acres 
of  forest  land  splendid  homes  had  arisen  as  if  by  magic. 
Through  pangs  of  disappointment  the  priest  made  out 
the  commanding  site  selected  for  his  cathedral.  A 
blasted  dream  evoked  passionate  prophecy,  and  the 
mirage  of  the  church  ordered  and  built  by  decrepit 
taste  rose  up  before  him.  The  bishop's  unsightly 
work  held  him.  Blinded  by  the  storm,  abnormally 
keen  to  a  cruel  delusion,  he  saw  the  end  of  his  own 
laudable  ambition.  To  his  imagination,  the  odious 
brick  box  on  the  hillock  seemed  to  be  true.  A  com 
monplace  elevation,  with  detached,  square  towers 
was  real.  With  his  brain  maddened  with  hallucination, 
harsh,  unmusical  chimes  began  to  sound  above  the 
blizzard's  roar.  Again  and  again  he  heard  the  refrain, 
"Too  late!  Too  late!"  The  significance  of  a  metallic 
summons  almost  stopped  his  breath,  yet  fancy  led 
him  on  to  the  open  church.  He  seemed  to  go  within, 
pressing  forward  against  the  crowd.  Below  a  flaming 
altar  stood  the  bishop's  bier.  In  the  open  casket, 
clad  in  robes  of  state,  the  old  man  slept  the  sleep  of 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  11 

death.  The  brick  monument  to  stubborn  force  echoed 
throughout  with  chanted  requiem  and  whispered  prayer. 
Incense  clouded  gorgeous  vestments  of  officiating 
priests.  Candles  burned  on  every  hand.  At  the 
Virgin's  shrine  flowers  lent  fragrance  to  an  impressive 
scene.  Then  he  seemed  to  forget  the  great  occasion,  — 
the  bishop  at  last  without  power,  the  kneeling, 
praying  throng.  Longing  for  human  love  displaced 
all  other  feeling.  In  the  image  of  one  woman  he 
beheld  another,  and  Isabel  Doan  assumed  the  Virgin's 
niche. 


AS  the  suspended  priest  went  from  the  bluff  the 
mirage  of  a  few  moments  faded.  The  bishop 
still  lived. 

Reaction  and  the  determination  to  face  an  arch 
bishop  impelled  him  forward.  Why  should  he  submit 
to  sentence  without  effort  to  save  himself?  He  drew  the 
collar  of  his  coat  about  his  ears.  At  last  he  was  sensi 
tive  to  physical  discomfort.  Air  sharp  as  splin 
tered  glass  cut  through  his  lungs.  He  bowed  his  head, 
revolving  in  his  mind  the  definite  charge  of  "modern 
ism."  What  had  he  really  said  in  the  pulpit?  Like 
all  impassioned,  extemporaneous  speakers  he  could 
never  quite  recall  his  words  when  the  occasion  for  their 
utterance  had  passed.  Progress  was  undoubtedly  his 
sinful  theme;  yet  until  lately  no  heretical  taint  had  been 
found  in  the  young  father's  sermons.  Born  a  dreamer, 
reared  a  Catholic,  he  attempted  rigid  self-examination. 
The  task  proved  futile.  In  Italy  he  would  have  led 
Catholic  democrats  in  a  great  uprising.  Despite  the 
"Index"  he  rejoiced  in  the  books  of  "Forgazzar." 
"  Benedetto's  "  appeal  to  the  pope  to  heal  the  "four 
wounds  of  Catholicism"  clung  to  his  mind.  The 
great  story  touched  him  irresistibly.  Sinful  as  it  was, 
he  had  committed  Benedetto's  bold  accusations  to 
memory.  "II  Santo"  still  drew  him,  and  he  was  angry 
and  sore. 

12 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  13 

He  knew  that  in  a  moment  of  emotional  uplift  he 
had  forgotten  the  danger  of  independent  utterance,  the 
bonds  of  a  Catholic  pulpit.  But  to-day,  while  he 
reverted  to  the  sermon  which  had  suspended  him  from 
the  priesthood,  he  could  not  repeat  one  offensive 
sentence  clearly. 

The  wind  increased  each  moment.  A  blizzard  of 
three  days'  duration  might  bring  him  time  to  think. 
At  the  end  of  the  storm  every  one  would  hear  of  his 
suspension.  The  priest  hurried  on.  Then  he  thought 
of  his  mother.  Suddenly  the  dear  soul  had  prior  claim 
to  Mrs.  Doan.  Above  bitterness  the  son  recalled  the 
date;  it  was  his  thirty-second  birthday.  He  told 
himself  that  nothing  should  keep  him  from  the  one  who 
could  best  understand  his  predicament.  This  dear, 
sincere  mother  had  counseled  him  before;  why  not  now? 
The  foolishness  of  troubling  Mrs.  Doan  was  clear.  As 
he  hastened  on  his  way,  he  began  to  wonder  what  his 
mother  would  really  think  of  the  bishop's  action.  Would 
she  accept  her  son's  humiliation  with  serene,  unquali 
fied  spirit?  Would  her  faith  in  a  superior's  judgment 
hold?  The  suspended  priest  felt  the  terms  for  the  true 
Catholic.  He  dreaded  palliation  of  the  bishop's  course. 
But  no  —  his  mother  could  never  do  that.  In  the  case 
in  question  her  boy  must  stand  injured,  unjustly 
dealt  with. 

Father  Barry  went  on  with  definite  intention.  His 
present  wish  was  to  spend  a  fatal  birthday  in  the  home 
of  his  boyhood.  Fortunately,  it  was  Monday.  Father 
Corrigan  had  charge  of  weekly  services.  The  younger 


14  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

man's  absence  would  not  be  construed  until  after  the 
blizzard.  It  flashed  through  his  mind  that  on  the  com 
ing  Sunday  he  had  hoped  to  make  the  address  of  his 
life.  Now  this  last  appeal  in  behalf  of  a  great  cathedral 
would  never  be  uttered.  On  his  study  desk  were  plans 
and  detail  drawings  which  must  soon  cumber  a  waste 
basket.  Suddenly  the  young  priest,  cast  down,  humili 
ated,  turned  from  the  tents  of  his  people,  longed  to  cry 
out  to  hundreds  who  loved  him — who  believed  in  him. 
But  again  his  thoughts  turned  to  his  mother,  who  would 
soon  hold  him  in  her  loving  arms,  cry  with  him,  beg 
him  to  be  patient,  worthy  of  his  bringing  up.  Then  he 
knew  that  he  was  not  a  true  Catholic.  His  binding 
vows  all  at  once  seemed  pitiless  to  his  thwarted  ambition 
and  human  longing. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHEN  Father  Barry  reached  the  parsonage  he 
found  no  use  for  a  pass  key.  Pat  Murphy,  his 
faithful  servant  and  acolyte,  was  watching 
for  him  just  within  the  door.  He  drew  the  half -frozen 
priest  across  a  small  entry,  to  a  large  warmed  apart 
ment  answering  to-day  as  both  study  and  dining-room. 
"The  rist  of  the  house  do  be  perishing,"  the  Irishman 
explained.  The  priest  sank  in  front  of  a  blazing  coal 
fire,  tossing  his  gloves  to  the  table.  He  held  his  hands 
before  the  glow  without  comment.  They  were  wonder 
ful  hands,  denoting  artistic  temperament,  but  with 
fingers  too  pliant,  too  delicately  slender  for  ascetic  life. 
Philip  Barry's  hands  seemed  formed  for  luxury,  and  in 
accordance  with  their  expression  he  had  surrounded 
himself  with  both  comfort  and  chaste  beauty.  In  the 
large,  low,  old-fashioned  room  in  which  he  sat  there  was 
no  false  note.  Pictures,  oriental  rugs,  richly  carved  chairs 
—  all  represented  taste  and  expenditure,  somewhat  pre 
judicial  to  a  priest's  standing  with  his  bishop.  That 
the  greater  part  of  everything  in  the  little  house  had 
arrived  as  a  gift  from  some  admiring  parishioner  but 
added  to  the  aged  superior's  disapproval  of  esthetic  in 
fluence.  To-day  Father  Barry  warmed  his  hands  with 
out  the  usual  sense  of  comfortable  home-coming.  Pat 
Murphy  observed  that  for  once  his  master  showed  no 
interest  in  a  row  of  flower  boxes  piled  on  the  table, 

15 


16  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"Will  you  not  be  undoing  your  birthday  presents?" 
the  Irishman  ventured.  The  priest  turned  his  back 
to  the  fire.  "I  must  get  warm.  I  am  frozen  to  the 
bone,"  yet  he  moved  forward.  One  box  held  his  eye 
like  a  magnet.  He  knew  instinctively  that  Isabel 
Doan  had  remembered  his  anniversary.  Unmindful 
of  all  other  offerings,  he  broke  the  string  and  sank  his 
face  into  a  bed  of  ascension  lilies.  He  seemed  to  inhale 
a  message.  His  eyes  felt  wet.  Pat  Murphy  brought 
him  back  to  earth.  The  acolyte  stood  at  his  elbow. 
"May  I  not  bring  water  for  the  posies?"  he  humbly 
begged.  Father  Barry  frowned.  "Untie  the  other 
flowers;  I  will  attend  to  these  myself."  He  surveyed 
the  room,  at  last,  reaching  for  an  ample  jar  of  dull- 
green  pottery.  The  effect  was  marvelous.  Like  the 
woman  who  had  sent  them,  the  lilies  stood  out  with 
rare  significance.  The  priest  glanced  again  into  the 
empty  box,  searching  for  the  friendly  note  which  never 
failed  to  come  on  his  birthday.  As  he  supposed,  the 
envelope  had  slipped  beneath  a  bed  of  green.  He  broke 
the  seal,  then  read: 

"My  dear  Father  Barry:  How  shall  you  like  the 
settled-down  age  of  thirty-two?  Are  we  not  both  grow 
ing  old  and  happy?  I  am  thinking  constantly  of  your 
splendid  work,  and  have  sent  with  the  lilies  a  little  check 
for  the  new  cathedral.  I  pray  that  you  will  permit  a 
poor  heretic  to  share  in  your  love  for  art.  Do  as  you 
think  best  with  the  money — yet  if  some  personal  wish 
of  yours  might  stand  as  mine  —  a  beautiful  window 
perhaps? — I  should  feel  the  joy  of  our  joint  endeavor. 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  17 

"But  remember,  the  check  is  yours  to  burn  in  a  fur 
nace  or  to  pay  out  for  stone.  You  will  know  best  what 
to  do,  and  in  any  case,  the  poor  heretic  may  still  hope 
for  a  bit  of  indulgence  from  St.  Peter.  Meantime, 
I  am  coming  to  hear  you  preach.  When  I  tell  you  that 
I  fear  to  have  a  young  Catholic  on  my  hands,  you  will 
not  be  surprised  that  Reginald  teases  each  week  to  go  to 
Father  Barry's  pretty  church.  He  admires  your 
vestments  with  all  his  ardent  little  soul.  Unfortunately 
at  present  my  dear  boy  has  a  miserable  cold  and  a  bad 
throat.  I  am  thinking  of  taking  him  to  Southern 
California  for  the  winter.  Before  our  departure  I 
shall  hope  to  see  you. 

"With  kindest  wishes  for  a  happy  birthday,  I  am 
always  your  friend.  ISABEL  CHESTER  DOAN." 

The  note  was  dated  two  days  back,  and  the  enclosed 
check  stood  for  three  thousand  dollars.  Father  Barry 
bowed  his  head.  Again  his  eyes  were  wet.  When 
Pat  importuned  him  to  come  to  luncheon,  he  sat  down 
with  unconquerable  emotion.  He  could  not  endure  the 
ordeal,  so  pushed  away  his  plate. 

"If  ye  don't  be  tasting  mate,  ye'll  be  fainting,"  Pat 
insisted.  The  priest  smiled  miserably.  "Don't  worry 
— I'm  only  tired.  Besides,  I'm  going  to  my  mother;  she 
will  see  that  I  need  coddling.  Pack  my  case;  I  wish  to 
start  at  once." 

The  acolyte  scanned  the  pile  of  boxes. 

"The  pink  carnations  I  shall  give  to  mother;  the 
other  flowers  you  may  carry  to  the  hospital.  Go  as 
soon  as  possible,"  the  master  commanded.  "Tell 


18  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

Sister  Simplice  to  see  that  each  patient  has  a  posey. 
The  fruit  I  send  to  old  Mrs.  Sharp.  Explain  that  her 
confessor  orders  white  grapes  in  place  of  a  penance." 

"And  the  lily  flowers  —  do  I  be  taking  them  to  the 
hospital,  too?" 

"No,"  the  priest  answered.  "In  no  case  meddle 
with  the  lilies."  He  moved  the  jar  to  a  position  of  honor 
on  top  of  his  desk.  "These  will  remain  fresh  until  I 
return.  Do  not  touch  them  or  let  them  freeze."  He 
leaned  forward  with  caressing  impulse;  then  his  eyes 
fell  hard  and  sober  on  parchment  rolls  and  detail 
drawings.  Cherished  plans  for  his  cathedral,  plans 
now  useless,  lay  piled  before  him.  He  closed  his  secre 
tary. 

"If  any  one  calls  —  say  that  I  am  from  home  —  on 
business.  I  must  not  be  pursued." 

Murphy  grinned.  "I'm  on  to  the  thrick!  And  it's 
not  a  day  for  resaving  visitors."  A  prolonged  gust 
made  his  words  plausible.  Father  Barry  tried  to  smile. 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Pat.  Should  I  never  come 
back  —  confess  to  Father  Corrigan."  The  priest's  mood 
was  difficult.  As  the  Irishman  watched  his  adored 
master  charge  into  the  blizzard  he  frowned  perplexedly. 
"He  do  run  like  Lot  afeared  of  Soddom,"  he  exclaimed. 
"But  it's  sickheis — nadin  rist  at  his  mother's.  Warkin' 
day  and  night  on  his  cathedral  has  all  but  laid  him 
low."  Pat  poked  the  fire.  "Mike,  up  at  the  bishop's, 
do  be  sayin'  nasty  things.  And  sure,  'tis  nothin'  but 
foolishness,  surmisin'  how  the  old  bishop  do  be  atin' 
out  his  heart  on  account  of  a  young  praste's  handsome 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  19 

face  and  takin'  ways.  Mike  be  cursed  for  a  Jesute, 
startin'  scandal  from  a  kayhole!"  He  picked  up  the 
coal  hod.  "I  must  kape  his  lily  posies  as  he  bid  me." 
He  pressed  close  to  a  frosted  window.  Through  a 
clear  spot  in  the  glass  he  could  see  his  master  breasting 
the  storm.  "He's  all  but  off  his  feet,"  he  muttered. 

Murphy  was  Father  Barry's  own  delightful  dis 
covery.  Months  back  the  priest  had  engaged  the  raw 
Irish  boy  for  household  service,  then  later  promoted 
him  to  a  post  of  honor  about  the  altar.  To  faithful  Pat 
there  was  little  more  to  ask  for  outside  of  heaven. 
Reports  which  he  sent  home  to  Ireland  were  set  down 
on  paper  by  Mike,  who  served  in  the  upper  household. 
Pat's  scribe  published  his  friend's  felicity  broadcast, 
until  at  length  even  the  bishop  was  fully  informed  of  a 
popular  young  priest's  affairs.  Without  thought  of 
injury  to  one  whom  he  adored,  Pat  extolled  the  plans 
for  the  great  cathedral,  which  possibly  might  eclipse 
St.  Peter's  at  Rome.  Again  and  again  the  boy  dwelt 
on  Father  Barry's  popularity.  To-day  as  the  acolyte 
looked  through  the  frost-glazed  window,  scratching 
wider  range  with  his  thumb  nail,  he  had  no  doubt  of 
his  master's  chance  to  become  a  prelate.  Soon  the 
"old  one"  would  pass  beyond.  He  crossed  himself 
devoutly,  peering  hard  at  the  tall,  retreating  form,  now 
almost  within  reach  of  the  corner.  An  electric  line 
but  half  a  block  away  was  Father  Barry's  goal.  As 
Pat  looked,  a  gust  sent  the  pedestrian  onward  with  a 
plunge.  As  usual,  the  master  carried  his  own  suit  case. 
Murphy  muttered  disapproval.  At  the  crossing  the 


20  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

priest  stopped  to  regain  his  breath.  His  sole  wish  was 
to  catch  a  car.  Owing  to  the  blizzard,  traffic  might 
suspend;  but  in  the  wind-charged  air  he  thankfully 
detected  a  distant  hum.  The  trolleys  yet  ran.  How 
fortunate!  And  now  very  soon  he  would  be  with  his 
mother  —  practically  lost  to  a  storm-bound  community. 
How  sweet  the  shelter  waiting.  Soon  he  might  un 
burden  his  heart  —  pour  out  his  trouble  before  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  who  would  really  understand 
it.  Then  again  he  remembered  Isabel  Doan  —  her 
check,  the  letter  hiding  against  his  breast.  After  all, 
should  he  not  restore  the  generous  gift  at  once?  Now 
that  the  original  cathedral  could  not  be  built,  was  it 
not  a  matter  of  personal  honor  to  explain?  Altered 
conditions  cancelled  both  his  own  and  his  friend's 
obligation.  Mrs.  Doan  must  take  back  her  check. 
That  the  bishop  was  powerless  to  claim  the  donation 
filled  the  priest  with  vindictive  joy.  Gradually  duty 
to  his  mother  ceased  to  govern  him.  Beyond  everything 
else  he  wanted  to  see  Isabel  Doan.  He  told  himself  that 
he  had  a  right  to  do  so.  Honeyed  sophistry  provided 
motive  for  his  desire.  He  stood,  as  it  were,  at  a  point 
defined  by  opposing  ways.  Double  tracks  glistened 
before  him;  one  leading  eight  blocks  distant  to  the  lintel 
of  his  mother's  door;  the  other,  stretching  in  the  opposite 
direction,  across  the  city  —  almost  to  a  certain  stone 
mansion.  The  priest  was  not  in  a  mood  of  valiant 
resistance.  Again  he  longed  for  Isabel  Doan's  sym 
pathy.  Yet,  as  he  tarried  at  the  crossing,  waiting,  still 
undecided  which  line  to  choose,  he  could  not  dismiss 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  21 

the  thought  of  his  mother,  even  now,  watching  for  her 
son.  He  could  fancy  the  dear  lady  sitting  by  the 
window,  expectant,  disappointed  when  no  car  stopped. 
Her  sweet  flushed  face;  the  adorable  white  hair  parted 
and  waved  on  each  side  of  a  forehead  gently  lined  by 
time  made  a  picture  which  he  could  not  easily  dismiss. 
This  mother  was  his  ideal  of  age.  She  seemed  as  rare, 
as  beautiful  as  an  exquisite  prayer-rug  grown  soft  and 
precious  with  mellow  suns  and  golden  years.  Many 
times  he  had  contrasted  her  with  overdressed,  elderly 
women  of  his  parish.  He  had  never  wished  her  to  be 
different  in  any  respect. 

He  would  go  to  her  now.  She  would  tell  him  what 
to  do;  and  after  dinner,  when  the  dear  lady  was  thinking 
of  early  bedtime,  he  might  slip  away  with  Isabel  Doan's 
check.  He  must  return  it  in  person.  He  shifted  from 
one  foot  to  the  other  and  beat  his  arms  across  his 
breast.  The  charge  of  the  blizzard  was  paralyzing. 
Down  the  way  a  car  was  coming  —  a  red  one,  he  was 
sure  of  it  —  glad  of  it.  His  mother  would  be  waiting 
for  him.  For  the  time  he  forgot  a  parallel  track  and 
that  other  destination  directly  west.  Suddenly  like 
songs  of  sirens,  he  heard  the  buzz  of  opposing  trolleys. 
Two  cars  would  meet  before  his  eyes !  But  the  red  one 
still  led.  Yet  how  strange:  it  had  just  stopped.  The 
yellow  opponent  came  on.  The  priest  breathed  hard. 
Fate  seemed  to  be  thrashing  his  will  with  the  storm. 
Again  the  red  car  moved  and  the  yellow  one  halted. 
Chance  was  playing  a  game.  He  leaned  expectant 
from  the  curb.  Something  had  gone  wrong,  for  once 


22  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

more  the  red  line  had  lost  the  trolley,  then  an  instant 
later  a  yellow  car  stood  on  the  crossing.  Father  Barry 
sprang  over  the  tracks,  veered  around  to  an  open  side, 
jumped  aboard. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ONCE  within  the  east-bound  car  the  suspended 
priest  found  valid  excuse  for  what  he  had  done. 
Even  now  he  need  not  disappoint  his  mother. 
As  soon  as  he  reached  the  house  of  Mrs.  Doan  he  could 
telephone  the  dear  soul,  explain  that  urgent  business 
detained  him.  By  dusk  he  would  be  free,  ready  to 
pour  out  his  heart  to  the  best  woman  in  the  world.  In 
case  the  increasing  storm  should  interfere  with  the  cars, 
there  was  always  a  hansom  cab  at  a  nearby  stable. 
His  forethought  pleased  him;  and  again  he  told  himself 
that  the  present  course  of  action  was  justified. 

To  return  Mrs.  Doan's  generous  check  —  simply  as  he 
might  return  it  to  any  friend  who  trusted  him  —  was 
sufficient  motive  for  either  priest  or  man.  He  settled 
comfortably  in  an  empty  seat;  then  felt  in  the  breast 
of  his  inside  coat  for  Isabel's  letter.  The  straight 
forward  wording  appealed  to  him  even  more  than  at 
first.  How  like  this  woman  to  put  aside  prudery. 
How  like  her  to  wish  to  bestow  through  art  a  gift  denied 
by  love.  And  she  was  soon  going  away  —  to  far 
California  —  with  the  little  son  whom  she  fairly  adored. 
There  was  no  place  in  her  pure  affection  for  any  man. 
The  boy  seemed  to  be  all  that  she  asked  for.  He 
frowned,  putting  away  the  note.  For  several  moments 
he  blankly  gazed  through  the  window.  With  the 
certainty  of  his  undoing,  he  again  blamed  the  bishop 

23 


24  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

for  all  that  was  sinful  to  the  soul  of  a  priest.  He  felt 
that  he  had  lost  his  religion  forever.  Beads  of  per 
spiration  stood  on  his  forehead.  He  was  bitter,  bitter. 
An  hour  before  he  had  believed  that  he  could  find 
courage  and  intellectual  ability  to  lay  his  case  before 
an  archbishop;  but  now  all  was  changed.  He  no  longer 
desired  to  remain  a  priest.  Exalted  sentiments  were 
not  to  his  credit  when  lip  service  made  them  detestable. 
He  felt  no  terror  at  the  thought  of  excommunication. 
As  soon  as  he  was  man  enough  to  tell  the  truth  he  might 
be  free.  Still,  with  a  last  desperate  confession  could 
he  ever  rise  from  ignominy?  Where  should  he  find 
refuge?  Perhaps  in  his  knowledge  of  architecture,  and 
he  might  write  books.  The  elastic  hope  of  an  artistic 
temperament  lured  him,  until  suddenly  he  once  more 
remembered  his  mother.  How  could  he  slay  this 
trustful,  simple  soul?  As  the  car  sped  across  the  city 
his  mind  turned  to  his  childhood,  his  boyhood,  his 
early  manhood. 

Ever  since  he  could  remember,  he  had  been  every 
thing  to  his  dear  mother.  When  he  was  but  a  baby  a 
scourge  of  cholera  had  taken  away  his  father.  Several 
years  later  a  beautiful  sister  died,  and  finally  a  grown 
brother.  Then  Philip  had  become  the  widow's  sole 
companion.  The  Irish  lady,  of  gentle  blood,  alone  in 
a  strange  land  —  fortunately  a  kind  one  —  thought 
only  of  her  little  son.  Soon  the  lad  swung  a  censer 
before  the  church  altar,  while  shortly  his  mother  was 
termed  wealthy  by  reason  of  wise  investments  and  in 
creasing  values.  Philip  enjoyed  judicious  indulgence. 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  25 

The  devout  Catholic  lived  but  for  her  son  and  her 
religion.  Early  in  life  she  taught  the  boy  to  accept 
without  question  the  authority  of  his  Church.  For  a 
lad  of  poetic,  emotional  temperament,  the  duty  of 
service  fraught  with  certain  reward  seemed  easy. 
Philip  loved  everything  connected  with  his  own  little 
part  in  the  chancel.  The  impressive  latin  chanted  by 
priests  clad  in  gorgeous  robes  fired  his  imagination, 
made  him  long  to  understand,  to  become  versed  in  a 
mysterious  tongue.  High  Mass  had  always  been 
dramatic,  something  to  enjoy,  exalted  above  play 
and  mere  physical  exercise.  Voices  floating  from  the 
choir  sounded  like  angels.  The  boy  adored  the  high 
soprano  and  enshrined  her  in  his  imagination  with  the 
gold-crowned  Virgin.  St.  Joseph  did  not  interest  him, 
but  he  spent  much  time  admiring  the  yellow  curls  of 
Mary.  Young  girls  with  bright  hair  stole  his  heart. 
He  associated  all  beautiful  women  with  the  Virgin.  His 
little  sweethearts  invariably  ruled  him  with  shining, 
tossing  curls  of  gold. 

Then  at  last  the  lad  gave  up  attendance  at  the  altar, 
laid  aside  his  lace-trimmed  cotta  to  depart  for  college. 
During  four  successful  years  the  watchful  mother  felt 
no  change  in  her  son's  religious  nature;  but  the  shock 
came.  When  he  returned  from  an  extended  trip  abroad 
she  saw  at  once  that  something  had  influenced  him  to 
question  the  authority  of  his  Church.  The  visit  to 
Rome  had  not  strengthened  Philip's  faith.  He  had 
become  indifferent  about  confession.  Often  he  was 
critical  of  officiating  priests.  Then  one  day  the  mother 


26  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

understood  the  full  measure  of  her  son's  backsliding. 
All  at  once  he  poured  out  his  heart  —  told  defiantly  of 
his  love  for  a  girl  not  a  Catholic.  The  poor  lady  knew 
the  worst,  knew  that  Philip  had  been  with  Isabel 
Chester  in  Italy.  However,  the  mother's  terror  and 
anxiety  were  both  of  short  duration.  Miss  Chester's 
family  interfered  almost  at  once,  and  soon  the  young 
woman  who  had  threatened  the  soul  of  Philip  Barry 
became  the  wife  of  another  man. 

As  time  went  by  the  zealous  faith  of  the  widow  was 
rewarded,  for  one  day  Philip  expressed  the  wish  to  retire 
to  a  monastery.  The  decision  brought  happy  tears 
to  the  deluded  mother's  eyes.  Her  boy's  emotional 
nature  did  not  disturb  her  own  simple  faith.  Philip 
was  saved.  But  she  asked  for  more,  and  more  came. 
When  her  son  was  duly  consecrated  to  the  Catholic 
priesthood  the  event  stood  out  as  the  greatest  day  in  her 
life. 

The  young  man's  later  career,  his  brilliancy,  his 
popularity,  even  his  dream  of  the  cathedral,  were  all 
as  nothing  to  the  real  cause  of  his  mother's  joy.  In  all 
the  woman's  years  she  had  never  doubted  a  syllable  of 
her  faith.  To  give  her  son  wholly  to  her  Church  was  a 
privilege  so  sweet  that  to  lose  it  at  last  might  take  away 
her  life.  Again  everything  flashed  through  the  mind  of  the 
priest  verging  on  apostacy.  He  bowed  his  head.  Could 
he  go  through  with  his  awful  part  —  forget  his  mother? 
From  the  car  window  he  saw  tall,  naked  elms  a  block 
away.  A  corner  near  the  home  of  Mrs.  Doan  was 
almost  reached.  Behind  denuded  trees  stood  the  stone 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  27 

house  of  the  woman  he  wished  to  see.  Questions 
scarcely  faced  were  left  unanswered  as  he  jumped  from 
the  car.  A  rushing  gust  almost  knocked  him  down,  but  he 
righted  himself  and  pressed  forward.  Piercing  air 
cut  into  his  lungs;  the  blizzard  with  all  its  sharp,  mad 
frenzy  had  arrived.  Above,  the  sky,  clear,  electrical, 
was  a  sounding  dome  for  oncoming  blasts.  Wings 
of  wind  beat  him  onward.  He  fought  his  way  with 
labored  breath.  Naked  elms,  chastised  by  the  gale, 
motioned  him;  and  plunging,  he  reached  the  vestibule 
to  Mrs.  Doan's  tightly  closed  door. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  door  opened  on  a  city  official.  "You  can't 
come  in;  we've  got  a  case  of  diphtheria,"  he 
exclaimed.  "I'm  ready  to  placard  the  house." 

Father  Barry  pushed  forward.  "  I  go  in  at  my  own 
risk  —  do  not  try  to  stop  me.  These  people  are  my 
friends;  they  are  in  trouble  —  I  must  see  them." 

He  passed  by  the  officer,  into  a  wide  hall.  Maggie 
Murphy,  Pat's  cousin,  and  Reginald  Doan's  devoted 
nurse,  met  him  with  swollen,  streaming  eyes.  "Good 
Father!"  she  sobbed,  "will  you  not  say  prayers  for 
our  darlin'?  He's  that  sick,  'tis  all  but  sure  we  must 
give  him  up."  In  her  excitement  the  girl  spoke  with 
native  brogue. 

"  Be  quiet/^the  priest  implored.  "  This  is  no  time  for 
tears.  You  must  keep  yourself  in  hand.  Remember 
the  boy's  mother  and  do  your  part  in  a  tranquil  way." 

Maggie  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  then  led  her  con 
fessor  to  the  library,  where  Mrs.  Grace,  a  carefully  pre 
served  woman  of  middle  age,  greeted  him  with  out 
stretched  hands.  Isabel  Doan's  aunt  had  been  weep 
ing  too,  but  judiciously.  When  she  perceived  Father 
Barry  a  desire  to  appear  her  best  effaced  lines  of  grief. 

"  Dear,  dear  Father ! "  she  faltered.  "  How  very  good 
of  you  to  come.  How  did  you  know?"  She  pressed 
an  exquisite  Roman  crucifix  to  her  lips;  for  unlike  her 
niece,  Mrs.  Grace  was  a  Catholic. 

28 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  29 

"I  heard  only  when  I  reached  the  door,"  the  priest 
admitted. 

"A  short  time  ago  we  thought  our  darling  would  die; 
but  now  there  is  the  slightest  hope  that  we  may  keep 
him.  His  mother  is  wild  with  suspense."  The  lady 
wiped  her  eyes.  "We  can  do  absolutely  nothing  with 
Isabel.  She  refuses  to  leave  Reggie's  room,  even  for  a 
moment.  I  am  sure  she  has  not  closed  her  eyes  since 
yesterday." 

"The  doctor  must  send  her  to  bed  at  once,"  said  the 
priest. 

"Both  he  and  the  nurse  have  tried  to  do  so,  but  she 
will  not  go.  I  believe  she  would  die  if  Reggie  should  be 
taken.  O  dear  Father,  will  you  not  say  prayers?" 

Mrs.  Grace  sank  to  her  knees,  wrapt  and  expectant. 
Maggie  Murphy  flopped  audibly  in  the  hall,  while  for 
Philip  Barry  the  moment  was  fraught  with  indecision. 
He  seemed  to  think  in  flashes.  He  wanted  to  cry  out, 
to  publish  himself,  to  deny  the  very  garb  he  wore. 
Then  the  next  instant  he  longed  to  entreat  for  the  life 
of  Isabel  Doan's  boy.  The  sweeter  side  of  his  profession 
held  him.  After  all,  what  difference  did  it  make  if  he 
might  give  comfort  to  women  in  distress?  The  prayers 
of  notorious  sinners  had  been  answered  on  the  spot. 
Why  should  not  he,  the  vilest  of  hypocrites,  yet  honest 
for  the  time,  ask  for  the  life  of  a  dying  boy?  He  felt 
for  his  priest's  prayerbook.  Fortunately  he  had  not 
changed  his  coat  since  his  rude  awakening.  The  little 
book  he  always  carried  was  still  in  his  breast  pocket, 
fairly  touching  Mrs.  Doan's  letter  and  enclosed  check. 


30  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

He  found  the  place  and  began.  His  knees  trembled, 
but  his  voice  came  strong  and  clear.  A  last  opportunity 
had  nothing  to  do  with  what  might  follow;  this  one 
moment  was  between  God  and  his  own  conscience. 
Tenderness  thrilled  throughout  him  as  he  went  on  with 
familiar  prayers.  In  the  hall  Maggie  Murphy's  sobs 
made  passionate  refrain  for  his  importunate  pleading; 
then  instinctively  he  felt  the  presence  of  Isabel,  knew 
that  she  stood  behind  him.  He  rose  from  the  floor  and 
faced  her.  She  answered^his  unspoken  question  with 
a  smile.  "He  is  better.  The  doctor  thinks  the  anti 
toxin  has  saved  him."  In  all  his  life  Philip  Barry 
had  never  seen  such  joy  on  a  woman's  face. 

Mrs.  Grace  sprang  from  her  knees.  "Is  Reggie 
really  better?  really  better?"  she  repeated.  Her  in 
tensity  jarred. 

Isabel  smiled.  "We  think  so,"  she  answered.  "Of 
course  the  doctor  cannot  tell  just  yet.  Complications 
might  occur;  but  he  hopes!"  Again  her  face  was 
radiant. 

Mrs.  Grace  crossed  herself. 

"The  membrane  in  the  throat  is  quite  broken,"  Mrs. 
Doan  went  on.  "The  anti-toxin  worked  wonderfully. 
Now  we  can  only  wait." 

"And  you  should  take  needed  rest,"  the  priest  put 
in  impulsively.  He  seemed  to  have  the  right  to  dictate 
to  this  woman  in  trouble.  For  as  he  stood  by  Isabel's 
side  he  began  to  realize  how  absolutely  over  were  the 
once  serious  relations  of  their  lives.  The  two  might 
be  friends  —  nothing  else.  Mrs.  Doan  had  no  thought 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  31 

for  a  priest  other  than  exalted  friendship.  An  accepted 
lack  in  her  married  life  made  it  natural  for  her  to  bestow 
exquisite  love  on  her  child.  That  which  she  had  not  been 
able  to  give  her  husband  she  now  dispensed  to  his  son. 
The  boy  filled  her  heart.  "You  will  take  needed  rest?" 
Father  Barry  again  entreated,  when  Mrs.  Grace,  frank 
and  always  tactless,  bemoaned  the  wan  appearance 
of  her  niece. 

"Do  go  to  bed,  Isabel;  make  up  your  lost  sleep," 
the  lady  urged.  "You  are  a  ghost!  I  never  saw  you 
looking  worse.  Those  dark  circles  below  your  eyes 
make  you  ten  years  older." 

The  older  woman's  crudeness  stood  out  in  marked 
contrast  with  her  careful  toilet.  Anxiety  had  not  de 
prived  Mrs.  Grace  of  either  rest  or  studied  accessories. 

Isabel  shook  her  head.  "I  could  not  sleep,"  she 
answered.  "When  the  assistant  nurse  arrives  I  shall 
have  less  responsibility;  but  until  then  I  must  stay  with 
Reggie.  My  darling's  eyes  are  always  hunting  for  me. 
You  know  I  wear  a  masque,  the  doctor  insists  upon 
it;  and  when  I  cross  the  room  my  dear  little  boy  cannot 
feel  quite  sure  about  his  mother.  But  now  I  have 
braided  my  hair  and  tied  the  ends  with  blue  ribbon. 
The  nurse  is  just  my  height,  and  we  both  wear  white." 
She  glanced  down  at  her  summer  frock,  brought  from 
the  attic  for  sudden  duty.  "Reggie  will  know  me  by 
my  colors." 

Her  pure  garb,  together  with  ropes  of  golden  hair 
falling  down  from  a  part,  made  saintly  ensemble . 
Once  before  —  in  Rome  —  the  priest  had  seen  her  as  she 


32  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

looked  to-day.  Then,  too,  dark  circles  deepened  the 
violet  of  her  wonderful  eyes.  As  now,  she  had  felt 
miserable,  in  doubt.  The  man  who  denied  a  selfish  part 
in  an  unforeseen  moment  was  suddenly  conscious  of 
his  deadly  sin.  But  now  he  prayed,  asking  for  strength 
divorced  from  pretense.  And  at  last  he  believed  that 
his  main  thought  was  a  desire  to  help  an  afflicted  house 
hold,  a  wish  to  support  friends  in  time  of  need.  He  told 
himself  that  he  might  give  Reginald  Doan  personal 
care  simply  as  he  had  done  before  for  other  children 
less  precious,  less  beautiful;  for  apart  from  the 
mother  Father  Barry  loved  her  boy. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THROUGHOUT  night  the  blizzard  raged.  Traffic 
was  suspended;  no  one  ventured  into  the  streets 
on  foot.  The  assistant  nurse  did  not  arrive, 
and  with  quickened  pulse  but  masterful  will  Philip 
Barry  assumed  her  place  in  the  sick  child's  chamber. 
Isabel  had  been  persuaded  to  retire.  At  midnight  the 
terrific  force  of  the  storm  brought  her  below  to  the 
library.  She  could  not  sleep,  but  sat  in  a  chair  by  the 
fire,  somewhat  comforted.  Oak  logs  made  grateful 
glow  for  the  mother  scarce  able  to  resist  the  temptation 
to  fly  to  her  boy.  But  she  had  promised  to  keep  away. 
In  case  she  was  needed  she  would  be  sent  for. 

In  her  restless  state  she  could  not  endure  to  be  alone, 
and  rang  for  Maggie.  The  faithful  girl  reported  at 
once,  while  together  the  two  made  ready  a  tray  for 
Reginald's  night  watchers.  Longing  for  action,  Isabel 
prepared  hot  chocolate  with  her  own  hands.  A  cold 
bird,  rolls,  and  jelly  completed  a  tempting  repast.  The 
maid  carried  up  the  little  supper,  her  mistress  waiting 
anxiously  until  she  came  back  radiant  with  good  news. 

"He's  better,  mam  —  the  darlin's  much  better!" 
Maggie  crossed  herself.  "Father  Barry  beats  the 
doctor!  Nurse  says  Reggie  minds  him  wonderful,  not 
even  fretting  for  you.  Now  do  be  going  back  to  a  warm 
bed." 

Isabel  shook  her  head.     "I  would  rather  stay  here," 

33 


34  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

she  answered.  "The  wind  sounds  so  loud  from  my  room. 
Put  on  a  log;  I  shall  toast,  sleep  in  my  chair." 

"If  you  don't  mind  I'll  stay  with  you,"  the  girl 
implored. 

"That  will  not  be  necessary.  You  had  better  go; 
to-morrow  you  may  be  needed." 

Maggie  moved  reluctantly  from  the  room,  as  Mrs. 
Doan  dropped  into  the  depths  of  her  chair.  The  fire 
sent  out  a  soft,  protecting  glow,  touching  her  face  with 
hope.  In  flowing  robe,  with  unbound  braids,  she  seemed 
like  a  Madonna  dreaming  of  her  child.  Soon  she  slept. 
Wind,  plunging  against  the  windows,  shrieking  dis 
appointment,  wasting  its  demon's  force  in  plaintive 
wail,  no  longer  disturbed  her.  Hours  passed  while  she 
rested.  Something  she  did  not  try  to  explain  had 
happened;  the  burden  of  doubt,  of  crushing  responsi 
bility  seemed  to  be  lifted.  Her  aunt's  incompetence, 
the  excited  maids  praying  about,  were  forgotten.  Help 
had  come  from  an  unexpected  source;  and  stranger 
than  anything  else  she  had  been  willing  to  accept  it. 

And  Father  Barry,  caring  for  the  sick  child,  felt 
corresponding  peace.  He  was  once  more  a  priest  in 
active  service.  It  seemed  right,  natural,  that  he  should 
assume  his  present  place.  In  all  his  life  he  had  never 
felt  so  strong,  so  uplifted.  Bitter  feelings  of  the  day 
were  gone,  dismissed  under  incessant  pressure  and  criti 
cal  conditions.  To  save  the  boy  was  his  only  thought. 
He  rejoiced  in  service,  more  than  ever  before  seemed  to 
feel  the  worth  of  humility.  It  came  over  him  that  to 
accept  his  suspension,  to  respect  the  will  of  his  superior 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  35 

and  go  into  temporary  seclusion,  might  after  aii  be  best. 
He  thought  of  days  in  a  monastery  almost  with  longing. 
Once  before  he  had  sought  shelter  with  good  men  who 
knew  how  to  obey.  In  his  first  boyish  sorrow  quiet 
had  brought  him  relief.  In  routine  even  in  mild 
hardship,  he  had  believed  that  he  had  discovered  a 
world  outside  of  self.  He  now  hoped  that  a  period  of 
self-examination  with  solitude  would  set  him  right, 
fit  him  for  the  priest's  part  he  had  chosen.  Then 
Reginald  Doan  held  out  his  tiny  hands  imploring  help. 
The  man  took  him  in  his  arms  and  held  him,  and  the 
little  one  found  comfort.  For  an  hour  Father  Barry  lis 
tened  to  the  boy's  breathing  with  renewed  hope.  When 
the  nurse  came  the  child  was  sleeping.  She  smiled,  but 
ordered  her  patient  beneath  the  covers  of  the  bed. 

"If  you  do  not  mind,  please  see  about  the  furnace. 
Williams  may  have  dropped  off.  We  must  take  no 
chance  on  a  night  like  this.  The  slightest  change  in 
temperature  would  ruin  all  we  have  done."  She 
bent  over  the  boy  in  watchful  silence  while  the  priest 
went  out.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase  he  took  off  his 
shoes.  He  held  one  in  each  hand,  treading  softly  to 
the  hall  below.  The  house  gave  forth  the  intense  quiet 
of  night,  but  between  the  library  curtains  a  stream  of 
light  lured  him  onward.  It  was  his  part  to  guard  the 
house  from  accident,  and  he  ventured  into  the  room ;  then 
stopped,  powerless  to  retreat.  Isabel  Doan  slept  in 
her  chair.  Her  rare  face,  touched  with  ineffable  peace, 
shone  in  profile  against  dark  cushions.  She  seemed  a 
modeled  relief.  Gentle  breathing  moved  no  fold  of  her 


36  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

loosely  gathered  robe;  not  even  her  unbound  hair 
stirred  ever  so  lightly.  Oblivion  claimed  the  mother, 
half  ill  from  exhaustion.  Close  to  the  hearth  a  pair 
of  tiny  slippers  rested  motionless.  The  priest  tarried, 
sinning  within  his  heart.  It  was  but  a  moment  —  yet 
long  enough.  Suddenly  he  knew  that  everything  was 
changed.  Isabel  was  no  longer  for  him,  nor  he  for  her. 
Their  divergent  lives  could  never  come  together.  He 
shrank  from  the  room,  not  looking  back.  To  escape 
without  disturbing  the  sleeper  impelled  him  into  the 
very  cellar;  then  he  sank  to  the  floor —  to  his  knees. 
For  the  second  time  since  entering  the  house  he  prayed 
as  a  priest.  Deliverance  from  self  was  the  burden  of  his 
cry.  In  his  deplorable  state  he  seemed  adrift  in  the 
dark.  He  might  be  neither  man  nor  priest.  There  was 
now  no  place  for  him  in  the  world  he  had  tried  to  for 
sake,  nor  could  he  longer  fulfill  the  false  part  in  his 
mistaken  calling.  An  opening  door  restored  his  com 
posure,  for  despite  his  emotional  nature  Philip  Barry 
knew  well  the  cooler  demand  of  time  and  place.  He 
spoke  to  the  man  in  charge  of  the  furnace,  then  exam 
ined  the  gauge.  "Not  a  fraction  of  a  degree  must  be 
overlooked,"  he  ordered  peremptorily. 

"And  the  boy ?  "  said  the  man. 

"Better.  Everything  from  now  on  depends  on  our 
selves.  I  came  below  to  satisfy  the  nurse.  She  cau 
tioned  me  to  say  that  the  slightest  change  in  tempera 
ture  would  be  fatal  to  her  little  patient." 

As  the  priest  spoke  he  turned  about.  Again  he  put 
away  everything  but  the  one  object  which  detained  him 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  37 

in  Mrs.  Doan's  house.  To  nurse  her  boy  through  a 
terrible  night,  then  to  go  out  —  forever  —  from 
temptation  he  could  not  meet  was  his  only  thought. 


135377 


CHAPTER  VII 

NIGHT  wore  on.     By  morning  the  passion  of  the 
storm  was  abated.     The  blizzard  had  not  lifted ; 
but  waves  of  wind  burst  less  frequently  on  a 
world  now  white  with  frozen  snow. 

Early  in  the  day  the  doctor  arrived  with  the  belated 
nurse.  The  priest  was  virtually  discharged  from  duty. 
He  would  have  gone  away  at  once  but  for  Reginald, 
who  held  tightly  to  his  hand.  The  sick  boy  was 
sweetly  despotic  in  his  little  kingdom.  A  child's 
appealing  trust,  his  angelic  weakness,  claimed  all  that 
Father  Barry  could  give.  "Reggie  —  won't  have — 
nudder  nurse,"  he  protested.  The  young  woman  who 
had  just  arrived  moved  into  the  background,  while 
the  boy's  mother  sank  to  his  side.  Isabel's  face  shone 
with  joy.  The  gladness  of  the  moment  half  stopped 
her  voice.  But  she  took  her  darling's  tiny  hand. 
Reginald's  fingers  clung  to  her  own;  then,  with  a  satis 
fied  smile,  he  reached  out  eagerly  to  the  priest.  "Hold 
nudder  hand,"  he  implored.  To  refuse  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  Father  Barry  knelt  once  more;  but  now, 
like  a  jewel  in  a  clasp,  the  precious  body  of  the  boy 
joined  him  to  Isabel.  On  opposite  sides  of  the  bed, 
both  man  and  woman  felt  instant  thrill  of  a  despotic 
measure.  The  sick  child's  eyes  sought  eagerly  for  his 
new  nurse.  "You  can  go  home,"  he  announced. 
"Take  your  trunk,"  he  coolly  added.  He  sighed 

38 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  39 

contentedly,  looking  first  at  his  mother,  then  at  his 
friend.  The  French  clock  on  the  dresser  ticked 
moments.  The  boy  seemed  to  be  asleep.  He  was 
only  planning  fresh  despotism.  "Mudder  dear  and 
Fadder  Barry  will  make  Reggie  well,"  he  summed  up 
conclusively.  "Some  day  —  I'm  doin'  to  buy  Fadder 
Barry  a  wotto-mobile  —  a  nice,  bu-ti-ful  —  great 
big  one " 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  priest.  The  child  spoke 
easily.  His  improvement  seemed  marvelous. 

"Dear  Reggie  must  not  talk.  Be  quiet,  darling," 
Isabel  entreated.  "Mother  dear  and  Father  Barry 
will  both  stay  with  you;  but  you  must  close  your  eyes 
and  go  to  sleep."  Unconscious  of  the  priest's  emotion 
the  mother  had  promised  much.  The  boy  drooped  his 
lids,  squeezing  them  hard.  Below  purple  eyes,  dark 
lashes  swept  his  cheeks,  then  raised  like  curtains,  as 
he  peeped  on  either  hand.  Isabel  was  faint  with  joy. 

"Darling,"  she  pleaded,  "go  to  sleep." 

"I  can't  keep  shut,"  the  little  fellow  whimpered. 
His  head  turned  on  the  pillow.  "I  want  Fadder  Barry 
to  put  on  his  fine  cape  and  his  nice  suit,"  he  begged, 
suddenly  recalling  the  priest's  vestments.  "And  I 
want  to  hear  the  little  bell,"  he  persisted. 

"  Yes,  dear  Reggie,"  Father  Barry  answered.  "  When 
you  are  well  you  may  come  to  church  —  may  hear  the 
beautiful  music  —  see  the  little  boys  about  the  altar. 
But  now  you  must  mind  the  doctor.  Don't  you 
remember?  just  a  little  time  ago  you  told  him  that  you 
would  be  a  good  boy  and  do  everything  Father  Barry 


40  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

M> 

wished.  If  you  talk  your  throat  will  get  bad  again. 
You  don't  want  it  to  hurt?" 

Sympathy  wrought  on  the  boy's  imaginative  tem 
perament;  he  enjoyed  his  own  little  part.  "I  felt  so 
bad!"  he  wailed.  He  had  naturally  a  broad  accent, 
despite  his  Middle  West  locality.  His  voice,  deep  and 
full  for  so  young  a  child,  inclined  to  unflattened  vowels. 

"I  felt  so  bad!"  he  repeated,  in  view  of  more  at 
tention. 

"But  now  you  will  soon  be  well,"  his  mother  quieted. 
"Just  think  how  good  you  should  be  when  you  are 
going  to  California!" 

The  promise  in  question  acted  like  magic. 

"Tell  Reggie  about  the  big  ningen,"  he  coaxed. 

"If  you  close  your  eyes,"  Isabel  agreed.  The  boy's 
lashes  shut  down.  "Soon  mother  dear  and  Reggie  are 
going  far  away  on  a  long  train,"  she  began.  "Every 
morning  the  engineer  will  give  his  big  engine  a  hot 
breakfast,—  a  great  deal  of  coal,  and  all  the  water  it  can 
drink.  The  long,  long  train  will  run  ever  so  fast,  away 
out  across  the  plains,  over  the  high  mountains,  to  Cali 
fornia.  At  first  Jack  Frost  may  try  to  catch  the  train, 
but  the  engineer  must  run  the  faster.  Then  soon  Jack 
Frost  will  go  howling  back  East." 

"I  want  Fadder  Barry  to  come  too,"  the  boy  put  in. 

"  If  you  talk,  I  shall  not  go  on,"  his  mother  cautioned . 
"Reggie  may  eat  his  breakfast  and  dinner  and  supper 
on  the  train.  At  night  he  will  sleep  in  a  funny  little 
bed.  Maggie  must  watch  that  her  boy  doesn't  roll 
on  to  the  floor.  After  a  long  time  the  train  will  stop. 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  41 

Mother  and  Reggie  and  Maggie  will  get  out,  and " 

"Fadder  Barry,  too!"  the  boy  persisted.  He  did  not 
open  his  eyes,  while  tremulous  lashes  expressed  his  joy 
in  the  story. 

"When  Reggie  gets  to  California  he  won't  have  to 
wear  mittens  or  carry  his  muff  or  put  on  his  fur  coat," 
the  mother  continued,  regardless  of  comment.  "It 
will  be  bright  and  warm,  so  warm  that  Reggie  may  play 
out  of  doors  all  day  long.  There  will  be  gardens  filled 
with  flowers.  Mother's  little  boy  may  pick  her  a  beau 
tiful  bouquet  every  morning." 

"And  Fadder  Barry,  too  —  and  Maggie  —  and " 

The  sick  boy  was  reluctantly  dropping  to  sleep.  The 
rhythm  of  his  mother's  voice  and  a  satisfying  story  had 
worked  a  charm. 

"In  California  the  trees  are  full  of  birds  that  sing 
just  like  Dickey;  only  poor  Dickey  has  to  live  in  his 
cage.  In  California  the  birds  are  free  to  fly.  Some 
times  they  fly  over  the  great  mountains;  sometimes 
down  to  the  deep,  big  ocean."  The  boy's  dark  lashes 
had  ceased  to  quiver.  "All  day  long  yellow  bees  and 
bright  butterflies  play  hide  and  seek  among  the  flowers; 
at  night  they  all  go  to  bed  inside  of  roses,  tucked  between 
pink  and  white  blankets,  just  like  little  boys  and  girls. 
They  sleep  —  and  sleep  —  and  sleep  —  just  like  Reg 
gie." 

The  priest  and  Isabel  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 
For  a  moment  they  held  the  tiny  fingers  of  the  boy, 
then  very  gently  each  released  a  hand  and  moved  from 
the^bedside. 


42  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

The  nurse  came  forward,  smiling.  "  You  might  both 
better  go,"  she  commanded.  Without  comment  the 
boy's  mother  led  the  way.  In  the  hall  below,  Pat 
Murphy  stood  in  earnest  conversation  with  his  cousin 
Maggie.  The  girl  looked  frightened.  Father  Barry 
approached  without  hesitation.  "What  is  the  mat 
ter?"  he  asked. 

The  Irishman  waited,  confused.  "I  do  be  sint  by 
Sister  Simplice.  Your  mother  —  the  old  lady  —  she 
have  just  gone."  He  crossed  himself. 

"Tell  me  again,"  the  priest  commanded.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Your  mother  —  do  be  dead,"  Pat  faltered. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

has  been  gone  an  hour,"  said  Sister  Simplice. 
Father  Barry  followed  the  nun,  half  dazed,  to  the 
upper  hall ,  for  as  yet  he  could  not  grasp  the  force 
of  his  own  miserable,  late  arrival.  Outside  the  closed 
door  of  his  mother's  room  he  waited. 

"  Tell  me  all ! "  he  implored.  "  I  must  know  the  worst 
—  before  I  see  her.  Tell  me  everything;  what  she  said 
at  the  very  last."  His  voice  broke  into  sobs  as  he 
dropped  to  a  couch. 

Sister  Simplice  drifted  to  his  side.  Her  words 
were  low  and  calm;  only  her  delicate  profile, 
with  slightly  quivering  nostrils,  expressed  agita 
tion.  She  looked  straight  beyond;  not  at  the 
closed  door.  Like  one  rehearsing  a  part  she  be 
gan  to  speak.  Father  Barry's  head  sank  forward 
into  his  hands.  The  nun's  story  fell  gently,  merci 
fully  softened.  As  she  went  on  the  priest  raised  his 
eyes.  Sister  Simplice  dreaded  the  question  burning 
on  his  lips. 

"And  she  did  not  believe  that  I  had  neglected  her  — 
forgotten  to  come  to  her  on  my  birthday?" 

"She  thought  no  ill  of  her  son,"  the  nun  answered. 
"When  I  came  last  night  the  danger  of  her  first  ^udden 
attack  seemed  to  be  over.  She  had  rallied,  was  per 
fectly  conscious.  'He  will  come  in  the  morning,  when 
the  storm  is  over,'  she  told  us  at  midnight.  'Yes,' 

43 


44  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

I  said,  'he  will  surely  come.  Day  will  bring  him  safe 
from  his  hiding  place.' 

Father  Barry  bowed  his  head. 

"You  remember  that  you  telephoned  in  the  early 
afternoon?  The  storm  had  already  interfered  with 
service.  She  could  not  catch  your  words,  felt  only 
that  you  were  detained  upon  some  errand  of  mercy. 
When  Pat  Murphy  brought  the  flowers  to  the  hospital 
he  said  nothing  whatever  of  your  movements.  This 
morning  he  happened  to  come  with  your  mail,  just  after 
the  dear  one  passed  away.  I  sent  him  out  to  find  you." 
The  priest  wept  softly.  "We  had  no  thought  of  the 
end  when  it  came,"  the  nun  went  on.  "So  quickly, 
so  peacefully,  she  left  us.  She  seemed  to  be  much 
better  with  the  dawn,  for  the  storm  that  kept  you  from 
her  side  had  abated.  She  was  expecting  you  every 
moment.  She  had  no  thought  of  death."  Sister 
Simplice  crossed  herself.  "Faithful  Nora  had  brought 
a  cup  of  nourishment,  we  were  about  to  offer  it,  when, 
brightening  like  her  old  self,  she  begged  for  a  fresh 
shawl." 

"I  understand,"  the  priest  faltered.  "She  wished  to 
look  neat  and  charming.  And  it  was  all  for  me!"  he 
burst  out.  "  She  wanted  me  to  find  her  as  usual  —  like 
her  pretty  self." 

"Yes,"  the  nun  answered,  "she  asked  for  a  shawl 
you  admired — the  one  with  a  touch  of  lavender.  Nora 
brought  a  white  cape  from  the  closet,  but  she  motioned 
it  away.  '  I  wish  my  fine  new  shawl,  the  one  my  son 
likes  best,'  she  pleaded.  We  were  gone  from  the  bed- 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  45 

side  but  a  moment,  both  searching  in  the  closet.  Your 
dear  mother  was  unconscious,  almost  gone,  when  we 
returned. ' ' 

Sister  Simplice  crossed  herself  again.  The  priest 
could  not  speak.  Stillness  followed  the  nun's  story; 
only  the  ticking  of  a  clock  disturbed  his  pent  thoughts. 
Suddenly  the  man  burst  forth  as  a  boy. 

"I  should  have  come  to  her  sooner!"  he  confessed. 
"I  knew  that  she  had  not  been  well  the  week  before; 
but  I  thought  her  slight  attack  was  from  the  stomach. 
How  could  I  dream  of  this!  She  assured  me  that  she 
felt  like  herself,  and  the  morning  of  my  birthday" — he 
hesitated  —  "the  morning  of  my  birthday  I  was  com 
pelled  to  go  to  the  bishop." 

"Yes,"  the  nun  interrupted  —  "she  understood  — 
knew  how  you  were  working  for  the  cathedral.  Her 
pride  in  your  success  was  beautiful.  She  asked  for  no 
hour  which  justly  belonged  to  the  service  of  your  Church. " 

"  Thank  God !  she  never  knew  —  died  believing  in 
me  —  thought  I  had  succeeded,"  the  priest  cried  pas 
sionately.  The  nun  lifted  her  crucifix. 

"The  blessed  saints  ordained  that  she  should  think 
nothing  but  good  of  her  son  —  her  priest  —  her  one 
earthly  idol."  Sister  Simplice  clasped  her  hands. 
"Have  no  fear  for  her  soul.  A  soul  —  such  as  hers  — 
must  rise  freed  from  transient  torment.  Soon  she  will 
follow  from  afar  —  follow  her  son's  great  earthly  work." 
Father  Barry  groaned. 

"You  do  not  understand;  do  not  know  that  I  am 
almost  glad  that  my  mother  has  gone  —  passed  safely 


46  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

beyond.  She  was  a  good  Catholic.  If  she  had  lived — " 
he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  before  the  trembling  sister  — 
"if  she  had  lived  to  know  the  truth  she  might  have 
rebelled,  have  doubted." 

The  sister  flushed,  then  turned  pale.  Nun  that  she 
was,  she  had  heard  gossip.  "The  bishop  has  not  put 
you  aside?"  she  faltered.  She  raised  her  crucifix. 
"He  hasn't  interfered  with  your  work  —  with  the  build 
ing  of  the  cathedral?" 

The  priest  signified  the  worst.  "My  labor  has  been 
in  vain,"  he  acknowledged.  "I  am  ordered  from  the 
parish  like  an  incompetent.  I  thank  God  that  she 
never  knew!" 

Sister  Simplice  shrank  as  from  a  blow.  The  sus 
pended  priest  saw  by  the  motion  of  her  lips  that  she  was 
praying.  Her  slender  fingers  clung  fiercely  to  the  rosary. 
She  seemed  to  dread  her  own  words.  She  could  not 
trust  her  voice,  dared  not  lift  her  face.  Tears  were 
slipping  from  beneath  the  delicate  eyelids. 

"Forgive  me!"  cried  her  confessor.  "I  dare  not 
tamper  with  your  faith.  Forget  that  you  have  been 
listening  I  implore  you." 

The  nun  raised  the  dark  fringes  which  had  seemed 
a  rebuke;  but  before  she  spoke,  Father  Barry  was  gone, 
vanishing  behind  the  closed  door  of  his  mother's  death 
chamber. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SISTER  SIMPLICE  told  her  beads  in  vain.  Strange 
new  rebellion  threatened  her  accepted  life.  Like 
the  young  priest  in  the  room  beyond,  she  doubted 
her  right  to  wear  the  authorized  habit  of  Roman 
Catholic  faith.  Tears  scalded  her  cheeks;  she  could 
not  keep  them  back.  Yet  to  weep  over  an  earthly  tie 
long  cut  away  must  be  counted  a  sin  against  her  soul. 
The  rosary  slid  from  her  grasp;  then  she  caught  it 
passionately  to  her  lips.  She  had  shed  no  tears  for 
three  whole  years.  Until  to-day  Sister  Simplice  had 
thought  a  victory  won.  Hospital  work  had  seemed 
to  bring  relief  to  the  woman  unfitted  for  spiritual 
monotony.  In  the  convent  she  had  been  misjudged. 
It  was  not  until  the  mother  superior  comprehended  the 
case,  and  removed  her  unhappy  charge  to  an  active 
field  that  things  went  well.  Nursing  the  sick,  the 
sister  seemed  to  renounce  the  bridal  veil  which  she 
had  nearly  worn.  She  regained  courage,  found  joy 
in  her  patients.  Actual  service  took  unrest  from  her 
mind  and  heart.  Gradually  a  romance  interfering  with 
devout  prayers  was  put  down.  The  nun  went  her  way 
untouched  by  criticism.  And  it  was  doubtless  intangi 
ble  sympathy  which  had  first  made  confidences  easy 
between  the  sister  and  the  priest.  Their  mutual 
struggle  removed  them  from  the  spiritual  line,  when 
both  tacitly  owned  that  human  longing  abides  in  spite 

47 


48  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

of  prayer.  But  with  the  project  of  the  cathedral 
absorbing  the  man,  the  gentle  nun  forgave  her  con 
fessor  and  implored  passionately  for  new  strength  for 
herself.  In  Father  Barry  the  church  had  gained  a 
splendid  champion.  Hospital  work  was  a  less  brilliant 
opportunity;  but  at  last  Sister  Simplice  looked  for 
ward  to  passing  years  of  peace.  Until  to-day  she  had 
been  happy.  Even  yet  she  hardly  understood  the 
change  which  threatened  her  usefulness.  She  did  not 
acknowledge  that  she  had  backslidden.  Hysterical 
longing  filled  her  woman's  heart;  she  could  not,  would 
not  analyze  it.  If  she  sinned  she  sinned!  It  seemed 
good  to  cry  in  view  of  impending  penance. 

The  clock  ticked  away  a  full  quarter  while  she  sat  in 
the  hall  alone  with  her  thoughts.  Then  the  door  to 
the  closed  chamber  opened  and  Father  Barry  passed 
out.  He  was  pale,  shaken.  Instantly  the  nun  became 
herself.  Again  she  longed  for  service.  "Will  you  not 
come  below  and  eat  something?"  she  asked.  The 
priest  shook  his  head. 

"Not  yet."  He  went  on,  but  on  second  thought 
turned.  "Tell  Nora  she  must  not  offer  me  a  hearty 
luncheon  —  I  cannot  eat  it.  She  may  bring  toast  and 
tea  to  my  room.  I  must  rest,  be  alone." 

The  nun's  dismissal  was  plain.  The  sister  went 
softly  downstairs,  hurt  that  she  might  not  carry  her 
confessor's  tray. 

Father  Barry  watched  her  glide  beyond  the  landing, 
then  walked  quickly  to  his  boyhood  chamber.  Here 
his  mother  had  changed  nothing.  To  retire  at  times 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  49 

to  the  little  room  was  always  like  a  snatched  interview 
with  himself.  As  a  rule  the  dear  lady  had  begged  her 
son  to  use  the  more  stately  guest  chamber,  but  to-day 
he  shrank  from  the  state  apartment  as  one  grown  noted, 
yet  now  waiting  for  ignominy.  To  see  his  mother 
cold  and  lifeless  had  settled  the  half-considered  step 
of  the  previous  morning;  for  at  last  the  man  believed 
that  he  must  give  up  the  priesthood.  He  no  longer 
wished  to  propitiate  an  archbishop.  With  his  mother's 
death  he  was  free.  Had  she  lived,  he  might  have  gone 
on  a  hypocrite.  Now  all  was  changed.  He  need  not 
continue  a  false  life.  Fortunately  he  was  rich  in  his 
mother's  right.  He  would  not  stay  in  the  place  which 
ought  to  despise  him,  and  he  might  live  in  any  part 
of  the  known  world.  At  all  events,  he  would  emulate 
an  honest  citizen.  He  cast  himself  across  the  white 
counterpane  of  the  bed  and  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow. 
His  neat,  careful  mother  would  never  know  that  he 
had  neglected  to  turn  back  the  snowy  spread.  Outside, 
the  dying  blizzard  moaned  fitfully.  Now  and  then  a 
long,  full  gust  came  reinforced  from  distant  plains; 
but  the  fury  of  the  storm  was  over.  He  began  to 
think  of  pressing  matters.  It  was  Tuesday.  On 
Friday  his  precious  mother  must  be  buried.  He  sobbed 
aloud.  Would  the  bishop  stay  official  disgrace  until 
after  the  funeral  ?  Suddenly  his  only  dread  was  public 
dishonor  to  his  dead.  As  his  mother's  boy,  he  wept 
long  and  passionately.  Nora's  knock  subdued  out 
ward  emotion,  while  he  took  the  tray  from  her  hands. 
He  saw  that  the  faithful  soul  wanted  to  stop  in  the 


50  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

room,  longed  to  fuss  over  her  young  master.  But  he 
gave  no  invitation  and  she  went  off  grumbling.  At  the 
door  she  turned.  "It's  dyin  you'll  be  yourself,  ating 
no  mate  —  only  a  bite  of  tasteless  toast.  And  the 
bishop  that  old!"  The  parting  shot  brought  no  re 
sponse.  Nora  closed  the  door  with  offended  spirit. 
"He'll  go  under,  with  all  the  bother  of  his  cathedral," 
she  muttered.  To  live  long  enough  to  see  her  young 
priest  a  bishop  was  the  old  woman's  earthly  dream. 
She  touched  a  crucifix  in  full  view  of  the  closed  chamber 
where  her  mistress  lay  cold  and  still.  Then  she  has 
tened  below  to  clean  and  garnish.  Sister  Simplice 
had  promised  to  stay  until  all  was  over,  and  she  had 
also  sent  for  Sister  Agnes.  Sister  Agnes  was  cold  and 
severe.  The  servant  saw  no  need  of  two  nuns.  She 
went  about  the  scrubbing  and  dusting,  glad  that  she 
might  work  without  regard  to  arriving  cards  or  visitors. 
The  good  soul  had  prayed,  then  wept  until  she  could 
hardly  see.  Now  at  last  she  was  busy,  again  absorbed 
in  material  matters. 

Meantime  Father  Barry  forced  down  toast  and  tea. 
Details  of  his  mother's  funeral  thronged  his  mind.  She 
must  have  everything  beautiful,  all  that  a  son  could 
give.  Her  last  Mass  should  be  splendid;  and  again 
he  wondered  about  the  bishop.  Would  he  officiate 
in  spite  of  all?  The  widow's  money  would  doubtless 
be  remembered  at  a  time  like  the  present.  Father 
Barry  felt  for  a  little  blank  book,  and  drew  from  his 
breast  pocket  Mrs.  Doan's  note  and  the  enclosed  check. 
Once  more  accident  controlled  his  movements.  Every- 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  51 

thing  rushed  back.  Even  in  the  midst  of  plans  for 
his  mother's  Mass  he  thought  of  the  letter  he  would 
write  to  Isabel.  She  must  know  the  truth.  Why  had 
he  not  told  her?  Was  he  yet  unable  to  confess  himself 
a  hypocrite  to  this  woman  whom  he  had  once  hoped  to 
marry?  After  all,  he  could  return  her  check  by  mail, 
for  in  writing  he  might  explain  an  altered  situation 
without  demanding  sympathy.  But  if  sympathy 
came!  If  Isabel  understood  the  case  as  it  really  was! 
Then  she  should  help  him  to  start  over  again,  to  go  on 
with  his  life. 

He  worked  himself  into  an  exalted  attitude.  For  the 
first  time  since  the  eventful  interview  with  the  bishop 
his  self-esteem  suggested  a  part  removed  from  abject 
failure.  As  upon  the  ledge  of  the  storm-beaten  bluff, 
he  felt  once  more  a  woman's  governing  presence.  But 
the  firm,  commanding  knock  of  Sister  Agnes  brought 
him  from  clouds  to  sinking  sands.  Again  he  was 
miserable  —  a  false  priest  facing  an  austere  nun,  who 
would  shrink  away  in  horror  as  soon  as  she  heard  of  his 
shame.  The  sister,  supplanting  gentle  Simplice,  held 
out  a  letter  closed  with  the  bishop's  seal.  Without 
waiting  to  read,  the  suspended  priest  knew  the  import 
of  his  superior's  forced  retraction;  official  action  was 
rescinded  until  after  his  mother's  funeral. 


CHAPTER  X 

REGINALD  DOAN  was  out  of  danger.  Infant 
tyranny  and  convalescence  had  both  begun. 
Over  clean-swept  plains  the  blizzard  of  three  days' 
duration  moaned  its  last  sharp  protest.  The  sun  blinked 
out  through  yellow  grit  on  a  city  lashed  white  and 
ghostly.  Isabel  ran  to  her  boy  with  the  first  peep  of 
day.  The  little  fellow  still  slept  and  she  returned  to  a 
warm  bed.  The  clock  on  her  dressing  table  struck  eight 
before  she  was  summoned  to  the  sickroom.  The  nurse 
opened  the  door,  smiling.  "  He  has  been  wishing  for 
you.  A  night  has  done  even  more  than  the  doctor  ex 
pected." 

"Has  he  been  quiet?" 

"Most  of  the  time;  but  just  before  you  came  he  was 
a  wee  bit  naughty.  Now  he's  going  to  be  the  best 
boy  in  the  world." 

Reginald  stretched  out  his  hands.  "  I  wanted  mother 
dear,"  he  sweetly  confessed.  "I  cried  just  one  min 
ute." 

"But  you  must  not  cry  at  all,"  Isabel  told  him.  "If 
you  cry  you  may  not  get  well  enough  to  start  for 
California." 

The  topic  of  travel  was  absorbing  and  soothing. 
Reginald  lay  quiet  while  his  mother  romanced  of 
trains  and  engines  and  long  dark  tunnels.  Genius  for 
operating  railroads  had  brought  the  boy's  father  to  the 

52 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  53 

top  with  several  millions;  the  son  would  doubtless 
make  good  in  the  same  way. 

To-day  Reginald  clasped  a  toy  locomotive  in  his 
baby  hand.  Interest  in  play  was  returning.  "My 
ningin's  all  weddy  for  California,"  he  exulted.  "To 
morrow  I'm  doing  to  div  you  a  ticket." 

"How  kind,"  said  his  mother. 

"And  I'm  doing  to  div  Fadder  Barry  a  ticket,  too." 
Isabel  made  no  reply.  "  I  want  Fadder  Barry  to  come 
back  —  I  want  him  so  bad!"  the  boy  petitioned.  His 
accent  seemed  unduly  broadened  for  the  occasion. 
Long  a  fell  like  a  wail. 

"Don't  be  naughty,"  Isabel  pleaded.  "Father 
Barry  cannot  possibly  come."  Her  voice  broke,  but 
she  went  on.  "Listen  and  I  will  tell  you  why  you 
must  not  ask  for  him.  He  has  gone  home  —  to  his 
mother  dear.  Last  night  Father  Barry's  mother  dear 
wished  him  to  come  to  her,  but  he  did  not  understand  — 
he  stayed  with  Reggie.  Now  Reggie  is  getting  well." 
She  rested  a  hand  against  her  cheek  to  hide  falling  tears. 
"But  I  want  Fadder  Barry  so  bad!"  the  child  protested. 
His  baby  face  took  on  the  resolute  charm  his  mother 
dreaded.  "I  do  want  Fadder  Barry!"  he  persisted. 
Then  with  autocratic  movement  he  called  the  nurse. 
His  countenance  shone  with  expedient  thought.  "  Tele- 
tone,"  he  whispered,  "teletone  to  Fadder  Barry.  Tell 
him  to  come  back  and  bring  his  trunk."  The  atten 
dant  left  the  room,  while  the  boy  lay  still  and  confident. 
His  purple  eyes  shone  so  darkly  in  their  wonderful 
sockets  that  the  mother  doubted  the  wisdom  of  an 


54  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

evident  ruse.  She  waited  anxiously  until  the  nurse 
reappeared. 

"Did  you  teietone? "  the  boy  asked. 

"I  tried  to,"  the  woman  answered,  "but  you  see  the 
wind  has  broken  the  wires.  The  poor  telephone  has  a 
sore  throat  —  just  like  Reggie;  it  cannot  speak." 

"Must  the  doctor  make  it  well?"  The  child's  sym 
pathies  were  thoroughly  aroused.  For  the  first  time 
the  new  nurse  achieved  a  victory;  and  the  illness  of  the 
telephone  grew  more  alarming  each  moment. 

The  boy's  mother  went  down  to  her  breakfast,  both 
hungry  and  happy.  Reginald  was  in  judicious  hands. 
On  a  folded  napkin  was  a  letter,  stamped  for  quick 
delivery.  Isabel  tore  open  the  envelope  and  saw  her 
returned  check  with  sharpened  senses.  She  began  to 
read.  When  at  last  she  understood,  she  was  crying. 
"How  unjust!  How  unjust  to  his  ambition;  to  his 
struggle  for  accomplishment!"  she  choked.  She  tossed 
the  check  aside  and  re-read  Father  Barry's  letter.  His 
unhappiness  was  her  own.  Her  one  thought  was  to 
nelp  him;  to  brace  him  against  disappointment. 
This  brilliant  man  —  this  friend  —  must  not  be  ruined. 
There  was  some  mistake.  Those  above  him,  the 
people  who  adored  their  priest,  would  see  that  he  had 
fair  treatment.  Submission  to  a  creed  had  not  been 
part  of  Isabel's  bringing  up.  Born  and  reared  in  an 
unorthodox  atmosphere  she  had  never  been  able  to  quite 
understand  the  power  of  Philip's  church.  It  was,  in 
fact,  this  very  attitude  which  had  first  made  trouble 
between  them.  The  two  had  parted  at  Rome,  both 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  55 

miserably  conscious  of  their  sacrifice,  yet  each  blaming 
the  other.  Afterward,  when  the  man  became  a  priest, 
successful,  eloquent,  exerting  splendid  influence;  ap 
pealing  to  people  of  all  classes  with  his  project  for  a 
cathedral  that  should  mark  an  architectural  epoch  for 
the  Middle  West,  the  woman  whom  he  had  wished  to 
marry  —  now  residing  in  the  same  city  —  rejoiced 
that  he  had  found  a  larger  scope  in  life.  When  she 
suddenly  became  a  widow  she  held  it  a  pleasure  to 
follow  up  the  desirable  friendship  which  was  now 
strictly  outside  of  sentiment.  Father  Barry's  vest 
ments  covered  the  past.  The  two  met  without  em 
barrassment.  The  priest  was  full  of  his  cathedral; 
the  young  mother  absorbed  in  her  little  son.  Then 
when  Mrs.  Grace  —  a  Catholic  —  confirmed  at  mature 
age  and  consequently  over-zealous,  arrived  to  live  with 
her  niece,  Father  Barry  came  more  frequently  to  the 
stone  house  behind  the  elms.  Soon  he  was  the  ac 
knowledged  friend  of  the  family.  Realizing  that  Mrs. 
Doan's  interest  in  his  new  church  was  almost  pagan,  he 
still  drew  strange  inspiration  from  her  clear  perception 
and  balanced  criticism.  Without  fear  both  man  and 
woman  accepted  the  cathedral  as  a  bond  which  might 
prove  to  be  more  suitable  than  love.  Isabel's  actions 
were  never  confused  with  a  flirtation.  Thus  far  she 
had  escaped  censorious  tongues.  For  Mrs.  Doan  was  a 
personage  in  the  western  city  and  universally  admired. 
But  if  she  had  escaped  criticism,  her  aunt  stood  for  a 
full  share  of  it.  The  niece  often  despaired  of  her  chaper- 
one,  regretting  that  she  had  selected  one  devoid  of  the 


56  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

finer  feelings.  However,  she  tried  to  make  the  best  of 
an  uncongenial  arrangement  which  had  resulted  from 
blood  relationship.  And  Mrs.  Grace  —  a  widow  twice, 
and  vaguely  considering  a  third  venture  —  was  not 
altogether  responsible  for  a  light  head  and  superficial 
education.  She  was  generally  adjudged  amusing. 

To-day  Isabel  was  keenly  sensible  of  great  trouble. 
The  priest's  impending  downfall,  his  heroic  part  in 
Reginald's  recovery,  the  sudden  death  of  his  mother, 
were  all  sufficient  reasons  for  her  own  straightforward 
determination.  She  would  go  to  him  —  go  to  him  at 
once  —  with  no  false  shrinking.  Perhaps  even  yet  she 
might  save  him  —  induce  him  to  appeal  beyond  his 
bishop.  The  weakness  evinced  in  his  letter,  his 
wish  to  give  up,  to  drift  into  obscurity  —  filled  her 
with  courage  which  she  did  not  really  understand.  Yes, 
she  must  see  him !  talk  with  him,  under  his  dead  moth 
er's  roof  —  persuade  him  to  hope;  then  she  remembered 
that  she  was  a  prisoner  in  her  own  home,  forbidden  to 
leave  it. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MRS.  GRACE  stood  dressed  for  the  evening.  She 
wore  a  rich  black  gown  fitly  relieved  by 
transparent  fillings.  A  splendid  rosary  of  pearls 
and  carnelians  clung  around  her  throat,  while  rare  lace 
falling  from  the  elbow  drew  attention  to  her  plump 
arms  and  small  white  hands.  Despite  the  woman's 
forty-seven  years  she  was  youthful  in  appearance. 
To-night  she  glanced  into  a  full-length  mirror,  satisfied. 
As  if  loath  to  part  from  her  reflection,  she  examined 
each  detail  of  her  elegant  toilet. 

"You  are  stunning,"  said  Isabel,  knocking  lightly  on 
the  open  door.  "For  myself,  I  thought  it  unnecessary 
to  change  my  linen  frock."  As  she  spoke  she  threw 
back  a  coat  of  sable.  "I  thought  I  might  go  as  I  am, 
for  I  shall  not  enter  the  house.  You  have  not  been 
with  Reginald,  so  of  course  there  is  not  the  slightest 
reason  for  not  going  in  at  a  time  like  this.  You  can 
give  Father  Barry  my  lilies,  and  ask  him  to  see  me  for 
a  few  moments  outside." 

"Simplicity  becomes  you,"  Mrs.  Grace  acknowl 
edged.  "You  really  look  well  without  the  slightest 
effort.  I  have  always  been  improved  by  good  clothes; 
even  when  I  was  a  girl  I  shone  in  the  latest  styles.  I  do 
love  up-to-date  gowns."  She  ran  a  comb  through  her 
fluffy  pompadour,  which  should  have  been  silver  but 
was  counterfeit  gold. 

57 


58  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

"Good  gracious,  Isabel,  how  your  color  has  come 
back!"  she  enviously  exclaimed.  "When  Reginald 
first  took  sick  you  were  ghostly;  now  I  believe  you  are 
fresher  than  ever.  I  can't  understand  you.  Being 
shut  away  from  everything  has  actually  done  you 
good!" 

Mrs.  Doan  perceived  the  drift  of  her  aunt's  compli 
ment  .  ' '  You  are  certainly  stunning  in  your  new  gown, ' ' 
she  answered.  "And  you  know  I  wish  to  get  back  to 
Reggie  as  soon  as  possible.  Will  you  not  come?  " 

The  older  woman  moved  slowly  from  the  mirror. 
"About  the  flowers,"  Isabel  went  on;  "only  mine  were 
sent  —  the  lilies.  The  wreath  you  ordered  will  not  be 
finished  until  to-morrow  in  time  for  service  at  the 
church.  Grimes  wrote  me,  explaining  that  the  piece 
was  so  large  that  it  could  not  be  delivered  sooner." 

Mrs.  Grace  accepted  a  disappointment.  "To 
morrow  will  answer.  I  wish  the  wreath  to  be  perfect." 
She  followed  her  niece  downstairs  and  outside  to  the 
waiting  carriage.  It  was  still  cold,  but  the  blizzard 
was  dead  in  a  shroud  of  stars.  Mrs.  Grace  settled 
expansively,  while  Isabel  protected  her  lilies  as  best 
she  could. 

"  It  is,  after  all,  fortunate  that  my  wreath  was  not 
sent,"  the  aunt  affirmed.  "  We  never  could  have  taken 
it  inside,  and  Thomas  might  have  objected  to  minding 
it  on  the  box.  When  I  asked  you  to  telephone  about  it 
I  did  not  realize  how  crammed  a  coupe  is.  The  piece 
will  be  wonderful  in  the  church  —  pink  carnations, 
orchids,  and  maidenhair  ferns.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  the 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  59 

biggest  thing  of  the  kind  Grimes  has  ever  sent  out.  I 
preferred  a  cross,  but  so  many  were  already  ordered 
that  I  decided  to  have  a  wreath.  I  do  hope  Father 
Barry  will  like  the  color  —  pink  suits  his  dear  mother 
much  better  than  white;  don't  you  think  so?" 

Mrs.  Grace  judged  grief  by  circumference  and  per 
pendicular  measurement.  It  seemed  as  fitting  to  send 
her  priest  a  wreath  as  large  as  a  wagon  wheel  as  it  had 
been  incumbent  to  wear  the  longest  crape  veil  pro 
curable  during  two  distinct  periods  of  widowhood. 
Isabel's  armful  of  lilies  struck  her  as  shockingly  uncon 
ventional,  not  even  a  ribbon  confined  the  long  green 
stems;  and  to  Mrs.  Grace  this  falling  away  from  cus 
tom  was  highly  amusing.  But  Isabel  was  Isabel.  One 
never  dared  to  count  upon  what  she  would  do.  Indi 
viduality  was  too  strenuous  for  Mrs.  Grace.  Besides 
every  one  paid  for  good  form,  nowadays,  while  it  was 
much  easier  to  adopt  accepted  practice  than  to  run  the 
risk  of  appearing  eccentric.  Original  people  were 
generally  poor  —  too  "hard  up"  to  be  altogether 
proper. 

"I  should  think  you  might  have  tied  your  flowers 
with  white  gauze  and  put  them  in  a  box,"  she  said 
bluntly. 

"Father  Barry  will  like  them  as  they  are,"  Mrs. 
Doan  answered. 

The  older  woman  sank  back.  A  long  feather  on  her 
large  hat  brushed  Isabel's  cheek.  The  niece  moved 
away.  In  the  corner  of  the  carriage  she  held  the  lilies 
closer,  praying  that  her  companion  might  restrain  frank 


60  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

opinions.  Fortunately  both  women  enjoyed  indepen 
dent  fortunes.  Affluence  represented  distinct  value 
for  each  one.  The  aunt  loved  money  for  what  it 
bought,  the  niece  for  what  it  brought.  Mrs.  Grace 
reveled  in  splendid  things,  Isabel  in  unusual  oppor 
tunities.  The  one  reverenced  abundance,  the  other 
freedom  and  the  luxury  of  not  overdoing  anything. 
Neither  one  was  congenial  with  the  other,  yet  for  a 
time,  at  least,  it  seemed  necessary  for  their  conflicting 
tastes  to  remain  politely  sugared.  Before  the  world 
aunt  and  niece  appeared  to  be  in  well-bred  harmony. 
To-night  the  irritating  chatter  of  Mrs.  Grace  kept  Isabel 
silent.  Shrugged  in  her  corner  she  scarcely  heard, 
for  suddenly  she  was  wishing  that  she  had  written  to 
her  friend  in  trouble,  instead  of  going  to  him.  But  for 
her  aunt,  she  would  have  turned  back.  But  Isabel 
had  done  many  difficult  things,  things  that  other 
women  shrank  from.  Her  intuitions  were  fine,  and  she 
seldom  regretted  a  first  impulse.  Almost  at  once 
Philip  Barry's  letter  seemed  rewritten  for  her  eyes. 
Sentence  by  sentence  she  pondered  the  tempestuous, 
then  broken,  despondent  appeal.  Yes,  he  needed  her; 
she  was  glad  that  she  had  ventured  to  come  to  him.  A 
jar  against  the  curb  furnished  Mrs.  Grace  with  petulant 
opportunity,  and  while  that  lady  settled  her  hat  and 
adjusted  her  ermine,  Isabel  grew  calm  for  an  approach 
ing  ordeal.  As  her  aunt  alighted,  hotly  deploring  the 
careless  driving  of  a  new  coachman,  a  flood  of  light 
burst  from  Father  Barry's  temporary  refuge.  Two 
women,  going  forth  from  their  dead  friend's  little  home, 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  61 

tarried  a  moment  with  the  son,  who  stood  in  the  illumi 
nated  doorway.  Suddenly  the  priest  accompanied 
them  forward.  His  eager  eyes  had  clearly  outlined  a 
coupe  and  faultless  horses.  She  had  come!  Isabel 
was  before  his  house.  He  bade  his  neighbors  a  crisp 
good  night  and  hurried  to  the  side  of  Mrs.  Grace.  "  So 
good  of  you ,  so  good  of  you  both ! "  he  exclaimed,  search 
ing  beyond  for  the  lady's  niece,  still  within  the  carriage. 
Mrs.  Doan  moved  to  the  open  door.  "I  was  not  in 
tending  to  get  out,"  she  told  him  softly.  "I  came  only 
with  Aunt  Julia,  to  bring  these  lilies  for  to-morrow, 
to  let  you  know  that  I  understand.  When  you  have 
leisure  to  listen  I  want  to  help  you  to  be  brave  and 
steadfast.  You  cannot  —  you  must  not  give  up." 
Her  voice  swept  over  him  like  music. 

"Come  in!"  he  commanded.  "There  is  not  the 
slightest  danger  for  any  one.  My  only  visitors  are 
Sister  Agnes  and  Sister  Simplice,  both  from  the  hos 
pital." 

Mrs.  Grace,  evidently  annoyed,  called  from  the  foot 
path,  "I  am  freezing!" 

Isabel  accepted  the  priest's  hand,  running  forward. 
"Father  Barry  insists  that  I  come  in,"  she  explained, 
while  all  three  entered  the  house.  Nuns,  alert  for 
notable  callers,  stood  in  the  hall.  Mrs.  Grace  shed 
outer  ermine  and  clung  significantly  to  her  splendid 
rosary.  In  a  room  beyond  she  dropped  upon  her 
knees.  The  lady,  addicted  to  posing,  had  unusual 
opportunity.  The  very  atmosphere  called  for  a  grace 
ful  posture  and  devotional  calm.  In  the  presence  of 


62  THE   HIGHER   COURT 

her  recently  bereaved  confessor,  flanked  by  praying 
nuns,  she  took  no  thought  of  Isabel  standing  apart 
an  accepted  heretic. 

Mrs.  Doan  still  wore  her  sable  coat,  the  armful  of 
blossoms  resting  like  snow  against  the  fur.  She  had 
stepped  from  darkness  into  light,  unconscious  of  her 
dazzling  appearance.  Clasping  the  lilies,  pressing 
them  hard  to  still  agitation,  she  might  have  been  a 
saint  of  Catholic  legend  dispensing  charity  beneath 
flowers.  "Come,"  said  Father  Barry,  close  at  her  side, 
"come  across  the  hall."  Isabel  knew  that  he  was  lead 
ing  the  way  to  his  beloved  dead.  She  went  softly,  not 
wishing  to  disturb  the  kneeling  aunt  and  devout  sisters. 
Father  Barry  had  spoken  about  his  mother  so  often  that 
at  first  she  followed  on  as  one  entitled  to  a  last  privilege. 
At  the  threshold  of  an  old-fashioned  parlor  she  hesi 
tated.  "Come,"  the  priest  entreated.  "She  would  be 
glad  to  know  that  you  had  placed  the  flowers  with  your 
own  hands.  Ascension  lilies  were  her  joy!  she  always 
chose  them."  Isabel  moved  slowly  forward.  The 
room,  lighted  with  wax  tapers,  was  long  and  narrow. 
At  the  extreme  end  stood  the  bier  and  improvised  altar. 
There  were  beautiful  flowers  on  all  sides;  the  casket 
alone  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the  son's  last  offering. 

"Will  you  not  put  them  here?"  He  touched  gently 
the  spot  of  honor.  "I  should  like  to  have  them  with  my 
own,  for  I  too  have  chosen  lilies." 

She  thought  of  Reginald;  of  the  difficult  part  in  the 
boy's  sick  chamber  which  the  priest  had  assumed,  and 
thankfully  complied.  Father  Barry  watched  her 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  63 

handle  each  lily  with  reverent  touch.     One  by  one 
she  laid  them  down,  then  turned  and  smiled. 

"How  beautiful!" 

"To  me  they  are  the  symbolic  flowers  of  the  world," 
she  answered. 

"Yes,"  he  told  her,  "they  express  my  mother's  life; 
it  was  white,  pure,  true,  simple — fragrant  with  love." 
He  sank  his  face  touching  the  bed  of  bloom.  "She 
lived  perfectly,"  he  went  on  in  tender  revery.  "I 
never  knew  such  faith  —  such  faith  in  her  friends, 
in  her  Church.  And  now  I  have  lost  her,  lost  her  at 
the  very  time  when  she  might  have  helped  me.  But 
thank  God  she  did  not  know!  Thank  God  always 
that  she  never  dreamed  the  truth  about  her  boy  — 
about  the  priest  she  almost  worshipped.  And  she 
could  never  have  understood." 

"I  think  she  would  have  seen  everything  clearly, 
as  you  would  have  wished  her  to  see  it,"  Mrs.  Doan 
protested.  "I  am  sure  she  must  have  counseled  you 
to  be  strong,  begged  you  not  to  give  up.  She  would 
have  told  you  to  wait  —  then  to  appeal  your  case  to 
an  authority  higher  than  a  very  unreasonable  old  man. 
I  do  not  understand  your  church  government,"  she 
acknowledged.  ' '  I  am  too  ignorant  to  advise  you  — 
yet  surely  there  is  some  way,  otherwise  there  would 
be  need  of  neither  archbishops  nor  of  a  pope!"  She 
spoke  valiantly.  In  her  heretical  judgment  the  Vati 
can  had  no  significance  if  its  ruler  refused  to  step  out 
side,  to  listen  to  individual  cases  of  injustice. 

"His  Holiness  bless  your  dear  soul !  bless  you  always !" 


64  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

the  priest  murmured  huskily.  His  eyes  glowed.  "  But 
you  do  not  understand ,  do  not  see  that  it  is  not  an  ig 
nominious  downfall;  not  the  bishop's  power  to  keep 
me  from  going  on  with  the  cathedral,  that  has  changed 
everything  —  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  remain  a 
priest.  All  the  time  I  have  been  nothing  but  a  hypo 
crite,  nothing  but  a  coward." 

"Do  not  say  such  things!"  she  cried. 

"But  I  speak  truth!  Nothing  shall  ever  silence  my 
honest  tongue  again.  You  shall  know  at  last  why  I 
went  into  a  monastery,  took  false  vows,  adopted  a 
sham  profession. " 

She  raised  her  face  appealingly.  Her  whole  being 
implored  him  not  to  hurt  her  again  after  the  lapse  of 
years. 

"  Forgive  me ! "  he  begged.  "  I  am  not  blaming  you , 
no  one  but  my  miserable  self.  I  was  not  man  enough 
to  stand  disappointment.  The  only  way  I  could  live! 

live  without "  Isabel's  eyes  forbade  him  to 

finish.  But  he  persisted.  "The  only  way  I  could 
go  on  with  life  was  to  forget  through  forms,  ceremonies, 
and  flattery.  When  I  began  to  work  for  the  cathedral 
I  had  new  hope.  In  reality  I  was  less  a  priest  than 
before.  Yet  I  was  more  of  a  man,  thank  God!  I  in 
tended  to  do  my  part  like  an  honest  architect.  I  wished 
to  give  my  Church  something  worth  while." 

"And  you  will  do  so  yet,"  she  pleaded. 

"Not  now.     I  shall  never  act  as  priest  again." 

His  words  fell  slow  and  hard.  "I  cannot  live  falsely 
one  day  longer." 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  65 

The  avowal  deceived  her;  and  now  she  had  no  fear 
for  herself.  Only  the  thought  to  help  the  man  drove 
her  on.  Not  being  a  Catholic,  she  was  vaguely  sure  of 
the  priest's  words.  For  Isabel  excommunication 
meant  nothing  but  an  unpleasant  form  which  must 
eventually  react  on  an  intelligent  victim.  She  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Any  one  has  the  right  to  change.  I  am  glad  that  you 
have  decided  so  splendidly.  It  is  like  you  to  know 
when  you  have  been  wrong.  And  now  that  you  have 
really  found  out  you  can  begin  all  over  —  study  archi 
tecture  —  build  something  as  great  as  the  cathedral. 
Vows  that  have  ceased  to  be  real  are  much  better 
broken." 

Her  words  evolved  a  simple  plan.  She  had  no  under 
standing  of  the  disgrace  attending  an  apostate  priest 
of  the  Catholic  faith.  Father  Barry  knew  that  she  was 
innocent,  that  she  had  no  wish  to  tempt  him.  But 
longing  for  all  that  he  might  still  receive  swept  away 
his  reason.  He  thought  only  as  a  man. 

"And  you  will  help  me?" 

"Why  not?"  she  answered. 

"Because  you  do  not  understand;  do  not  know  what 
your  asking  me  to  begin  life  over  implies."  His  mother's 
face  beneath  the  lid  of  the  casket  was  no  whiter  than 
his  own.  All  that  he  had  lived  through  in  the  last 
three  days  made  fresh  renunciation  vain.  Discarded 
vows  fell  away  from  him  as  a  cast-off  garment.  He  was 
simply  begging  life  from  the  woman  he  loved. 

"Not  here!"  she  pleaded.     "Do  not  forget  where  we 


66  THE   HIGHER   COURT 

are!"  Her  voice  broke.  "You  are  still  a  priest;  your 
vows  hold  before  the  world.  I  will  not  listen  to  you. 
Everything  must  be  changed  —  absolutely  changed, 
before  I  can  see  you  —  ever  again."  Her  anger  re 
stored  him. 

"I  will  do  anything!"  he  promised. 

"Then  go  abroad  —  at  once,"  she  entreated.  Voices 
admonished  her  to  be  prudent.  She  moved  away.  "I 
will  help  you !  help  you !  But  you  shall  wait.  Nothing 
must  shadow  your  honest  life  to  come."  She  spoke  in 
French,  fearing  her  words  might  reach  the  hall.  Mrs. 
Grace  stood  outside  the  parlor  door.  Dreading  to  look 
upon  death,  she  yet  resented  her  confessor's  neglect. 
Nuns  had  ceased  to  hold  her  from  an  evident  living 
attraction,  as  she  swept  into  the  room.  But  she  was 
scarcely  satisfied;  for  the  length  of  the  casket  divided 
her  niece  from  Father  Barry.  The  priest,  uncon 
scious  of  an  intruder,  wept  out  his  shame  above  Isabel's 
lilies. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ISABEL  sat  beneath  the  trees,  while  Reginald  turned 
successful  somersaults  on  the  lawn.  The  boy  was 
well  and  strong,  adorable  in  blue  overalls. 

Mrs.  Doan's  second  season  in  the  most  beautiful 
town  in  southern  California  had  begun.  She  had 
forestalled  the  demand  of  tourists,  and  was  already  es 
tablished  in  a  furnished  house,  with  a  garden.  She 
was  very  happy  and  believed  that  she  had  found  the 
idyllic  spot  of  a  life-long  dream.  To-day  a  glorious 
perspective  of  purple  mountains  spread  out  before  her, 
when  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  bit  of  needlework 
which  she  was  trying  to  finish  for  a  friend's  firstborn. 
Having  spent  the  previous  season  in  a  large  hotel  she 
rejoiced  in  seclusion.  Now  she  might  face  the  future 
without  indefinite  dread,  something  she  could  not 
quite  get  rid  of  when  thinking  of  the  man  whom  she  had 
undoubtedly  influenced.  For  Philip  Barry  was  no 
longer  in  orders.  Almost  a  year  lay  between  his  life 
as  a  priest  and  the  strained,  difficult  existence  of  one 
adrift,  beginning  over,  feeling  his  way  with  a  preju 
diced  public.  But  he  had  gone  abroad,  as  Isabel 
advised;  and  at  first  excommunication  appeared  to  be 
no  harder  to  bear  than  his  earlier  Catholic  punishment. 

During  months  in  Paris  he  had  wrought  himself 
into  lofty  independence,  occupying  his  time  with  fever 
ish  writing.  The  result  was  an  unpublished  book  on 

67 


68  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"The  Spirit  of  the  Cathedral."  Disdaining  many 
lurid  accounts  of  his  apostacy,  he  had  worked  with  his 
whole  intellect,  thinking  constantly  of  Isabel.  Yet 
withal  he  kept  his  promise.  Through  six  months  he 
had  sent  her  no  word  of  his  welfare.  Isabel's  pure 
name  lent  no  color  to  a  startling  sensation,  exciting 
the  entire  Middle  West  and  Catholics  throughout  the 
world.  With  Mrs.  Grace,  alone,  suspicion  rested. 
For  others,  Mrs.  Doan  had  no  part  in  the  priest's 
unusual  course.  Fortunately,  but  one  stormy  scene 
had  ensued  between  the  aunt  and  the  niece,  then  both 
women  agreed  to  ignore  a  painful  subject.  It  was  not 
until  the  second  season  in  California,  when  European 
letters  began  to  come  with  unguarded  frequency,  that 
Mrs.  Grace  again  grew  chilly.  Glancing  askance  at 
foreign  postmarks,  she  declined  to  ask  the  most  trivial 
question  concerning  the  man  wholly  excluded  from  the 
thoughts  of  a  good  Catholic.  The  lady's  bitterness 
brewed  fresh  measure.  Isabel  was  deeply  hurt.  Still, 
as  during  the  previous  winter,  days  passed  without 
rupture.  To  all  appearances  things  were  as  usual. 
It  was  not  until  Mrs.  Grace  rebelled  over  quiet  that 
Isabel  fully  realized  her  aunt's  unfitness.  She  now 
barely  endured  her  chaperone,  while  more  than  ever 
she  regretted  the  woman's  unexecuted  threat  to  return 
to  apartments  in  a  favorite  hotel.  However,  Mrs. 
Grace  stayed  on,  unsettling  an  otherwise  contented 
household. 

Isabel  was  obliged  to  keep    open  {house  without 
regard  to  chosen  guests.     A  dream  of  freedom  seemed 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  69 

ruthlessly  dispelled.  Yet  to-day  she  was  happy,  at 
last  free  to  indulge  her  thoughts.  Early  in  the  morning 
the  restless  relative  had  departed,  and  should  good 
fortune  continue,  the  touring  car  would  not  return 
before  late  afternoon.  Isabel  glanced  down  the  gentle 
slope  of  her  garden,  shut  in  from  streets  beyond  by 
hedge  rows  that  in  springtime  were  snowbanks  of 
cherokee  roses.  Early  rain  had  cleansed  the  moun 
tains.  The  range  was  already  prismatic,  sharpened 
into  fresh  beauty  below  a  sky  as  blue  as  June.  No 
suggestion  of  winter  touched  the  landscape.  As  usual 
the  paradox  for  November  was  summer  overhead  and 
autumn  on  the  foothills.  "Old  Baldy"  still  rose 
without  his  ermine.  On  the  mesa  brown  and  yellow 
vineyards  lay  despoiled  of  crops  lately  pressed  into 
vintage  or  dried  into  raisins.  What  is  known  as  "the 
season"  had  not  begun.  To  Isabel  the  absence  of  the 
ubiquitous  tourist,  together  with  simple  demands  upon 
time,  expressed  a  "psalm  of  life,"  which  she  might  well 
have  sung. 

As  she  sat  under  a  tree  sewing,  her  mind  went  natur 
ally  to  a  land  far  distant  —  a  land  which  held  Philip 
Barry.  For  a  letter  had  come  that  very  morning. 
The  excommunicated  priest  was  in  Paris  awaiting  her 
answer.  A  year  of  probation  was  almost  over,  yet  he 
begged  as  a  boy  for  shortened  time.  While  Isabel 
worked  she  examined  herself  with  judicial  care.  The 
unerring  precision  of  each  tiny,  regular  stitch  seemed 
like  testimony  in  her  lover's  case.  She  sewed  exqui 
sitely  at  infrequent  intervals,  and  generally  to  compose 


70  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

her  mind.  Philip  Barry's  wish  to  come  to  her  at  once 
had  upset  both  her  plans  and  her  judgment.  Should 
she  let  him  cross  —  two  full  months  before  the  time 
agreed  upon?  All  that  her  answer  might  involve 
pricked  into  soft  cambric.  She  drew  a  thread,  again 
and  again  struck  back  sharply  into  dainty  space  for  a 
hemstitched  tuck.  It  was  hard  —  so  hard  —  to  refuse. 
Yet  if  he  came,  came  within  the  month,  then  every 
thing  must  be  changed,  not  only  for  herself  but  for 
Reginald. 

Isabel  evaded  the  natural  conclusion  of  the  whole 
matter.  As  she  sat  below  the  towering  mountains  — 
very  close  they  seemed  to-day  —  she  had  a  sense  of 
being  in  retreat  from  everyone.  She  would  take  ample 
time  to  prove  herself,  to  feel  sure  that  her  wish  for 
Philip  Barry's  love  was  not  selfishness.  Nothing  must 
make  her  forget  the  boy  and  the  possible  consequence 
of  his  mother's  marriage  to  an  apostate  Catholic  priest. 
She  sighed,  looking  up  at  the  purple  peaks.  The  very 
serenity  of  her  environment  developed  the  longing 
for  happiness.  She  was  too  young  to  accept  blighting 
sacrifice.  And  yet,  because  of  those  two  months  on 
which  she  had  counted,  she  was  undecided.  But 
withal  she  smiled.  "He  might  have  stayed  away  the 
year!"  she  murmured.  Her  son's  glad  shouts  echoed 
on  the  lawn.  Impatience  is  unreasonable.  Why  has  he 
asked  me  to  cable  my  answer?  He  should  have  waited 
for  my  letter,  she  told  herself,  in  flat  denial  to  what 
she  really  wished. 

She  sat  idle.      Stirring  pepper  boughs  roused  her 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  71 

from  re  very.  She  looked  above  at  swaying  branches, 
only  to  remember  how  admirably  Reginald's  father 
had  waited  for  everything.  Half  stoical  force,  which 
described  the  man's  power  during  a  period  of  success 
ful  railroading,  had  always  restrained  him.  When 
he  died,  his  unsoiled  record  and  splendid  business  suc 
cess  had  both  been  achieved  through  the  mastery  of 
waiting.  She  smiled.  The  curve  of  her  lips  charmed. 
She  was  yet  undecided.  Yes,  the  man  she  married  had 
not  been  impatient.  He  had  waited  three  months 
for  the  one  word  she  would  not  say.  At  last,  when  she 
became  his  wife,  he  still  waited  for  something  she  could 
never  give  him.  He  did  not  complain.  Again  pepper 
branches  trembled,  and  a  shower  of  tiny  berries  began  to 
fall.  Commotion  ensued  among  leaves,  until  a  dark, 
slender  mocker  shot  out,  onto  the  back  of  Reginald's 
fox  terrier.  Suspicion,  rage,  shrieked  in  the  bird's 
shrill  war  cry.  The  beleaguered  dog  retreated  beneath 
Isabel's  chair.  The  enemy  flew  off,  but  came  back, 
finally  to  settle  just  below  the  cherished  nest  which  his 
excitement  had  duly  located.  Egotism  and  pride  made 
plain  his  secret. 

Isabel  laughed,  as  she  patted  the  dog  crouching  at 
her  feet.  "Poor  fellow!"  she  said.  "You  surely  had 
no  thought  to  harm  domestic  prospects."  Then 
through  the  garden  her  boy  rushed  headlong,  a  toy 
spade  swung  recklessly,  as  Maggie  the  nurse  pursued. 
Jewels  of  moisture  glistened  on  the  child's  warm  fore 
head.  His  cheeks  glowed,  the  violet  of  his  eyes  shone 
flowerlike.  He  flung  himself  into  waiting,  outstretched 


72  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

arms.  "O  mudder  dear!"  he  cried.  " I  just  love  you 
so,  it  most  makes  me  cry."  The  joy  of  his  baby  pas 
sion,  the  depths  reserved  for  years  to  come,  seemed  the 
expression  of  another,  a  stronger  will;  and  Isabel  knew 
that  she  had  made  ready  her  answer  to  Philip  Barry. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SHORTLY  before  five  Isabel  heard  the  horn  of  the 
returning  car.  She  ran  to  a  mirror  and  gazed 
at  her  reflection  with  new  interest,'  for  after 
useless  struggle  with  Fate  she  had  decided  to  let  Philip 
Barry  cross  the  water.  The  telegram  had  been  sent  to 
New  York  and  soon  her  message  would  vibrate  over  the 
Atlantic  cable.  Early  in  the  afternoon  she  had  over 
hauled  gowns  not  intended  to  be  worn  until  several 
months  later.  Her  changed  toilet  was  a  matter  of 
significance,  almost  a  challenge  to  her  aunt,  who 
would  readily  construe  a  transformation  from  half 
mourning  to  violet  crepe  and  amethysts.  She  listened 
to  the  horn,  dreading  an  ordeal.  Fortunately,  intui 
tions  concerning  Mrs.  Grace  always  developed  her  own 
mastery.  And  to-day  Isabel  ignored  the  aunt's 
startled  expression  and  crude  outcry,  as  she  hastened  on 
to  meet  arriving  guests. 

"So  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well!"  cried  Gay 
Lewis,  a  school  acquaintance  of  years  back.  "I  was 
afraid  we  might  be  late !  But  luck  is  on  our  side,  and 
with  my  mother,  who  so  wishes  to  know  you,  are  our 
very  dear  friends,  Mrs.  Hartley  and  her  son."  Miss 
Lewis  assumed  social  responsibility  with  ease.  While 
Mrs.  Doan  received  the  ladies,  she  fairly  drove  the  man 
—  or  rather  youth  —  of  the  party  forward. 

"Let   me  present   you,   Ned.     And   remember!     I 

73 


74  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

am  doing  something  very  sweet.  Mrs.  Doan  is  a 
darling  to  have  us  for  tea;  do  you  not  think  so?" 

"You  were  kind  to  come,"  said  Isabel,  looking  at 
young  Hartley.  "How  did  you  manage  to  hit  the 
hour  exactly?  Was  there  no  trial  of  patience  under 
neath  your  machine?" 

"Not  the  least,"  Miss  Lewis  volunteered,  as  the 
strangers  went  onward  to  an  immense  living-room. 
"You  should  have  joined  us,  not  stayed  at  home  on  a 
day  like  this!" 

Hartley's  adoring  eyes  renewed  a  previous  invitation. 
"You  will  come  next  time  —  to-morrow? "  he  implored. 

"Have  we  not  had  a  delicious  run? "  said  Miss  Lewis, 
speaking  to  the  older  women,  relaxing  in  chairs  and  ready 
for  tea. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  her  mother.  "Everything  has 
been  perfect." 

"And  Mr.  Hartley  is  such  a  precious  driver,"  the 
daughter  went  on.  "He  left  his  chauffeur  on  the 
road  —  came  home  alone  —  without  a  mishap !  You 
may  fancy  his  skill  from  the  time  we  made  —  ninety- 
nine  miles,  was  it  not?  Yes,  of  course!  a  regular  bar 
gain  run.  And  we  started  so  late;  not  until  after  ten, 
with  luncheon  at  one.  Part  of  our  way  was  simply 
drenched  with  fresh  oil." 

"Just  like  a  greasy  river,"  Mrs.  Grace  complained. 

"An  outrage  upon  strangers  who  wish  to  enjoy  the 
country,"  chimed  Mrs.  Lewis. 

"I  should  think  people  who  live  here  —  and  many  of 
them  own  most  expensive  cars  —  would  protest.  It 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  75 

doesn't  seem  fair  to  spoil  good  sport  by  such  aggravat 
ing  conditions,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"Another  biscuit,  Ned  dear;  I  am  shamefully 
hungry."  Gay  Lewis,  who  had  passed  too  many 
seasons  of  unavailable  conquest  to  be  accounted  young 
by  debutantes,  leaned  forward.  "Dear  Mrs.  Hartley, 
take  two.  Such  jolly  biscuit,  aren't  they?  Our 
hostess  must  indulge  us  all,  we  poor  people  who  stop 
in  a  hotel." 

She  turned  to  Isabel,  assiduously  occupied  with  a 
steaming  samovar.  "You  do  it  like  an  old  hand;  and 
I  simply  envy  you  this  house."  Miss  Lewis  swept 
the  immense,  rich  room  with  alert  eyes,  keen  to  artistic 
values.  "You  were  lucky.  I  am  surprised  that  Mrs. 
Grant  consented  to  rent.  However,  I  am  told  that  her 
stay  abroad  is  apt  to  be  protracted.  You  know  she  is 
most  ambitious  for  her  daughters?" 

"Yes,"  assented  Isabel,  "she  lives  here  only  a  few 
months  each  year. 

"Is  there  a  Mr.  Grant?"  asked  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"Oh,  dear  yes;  but  he  doesn't  count.  His  wife  has 
the  money,  and  the  taste,  too,"  Miss  Lewis  volunteered. 

"We  must  examine  those  antique  brasses  before  we 
leave."  Gay  again  addressed  Mrs.  Hartley.  "Mrs. 
Grant  has  wonderful  things,"  she  explained. 

"I  always  want  to  clean  tarnished  brass  up  a  bit," 
the  lady  answered. 

"Of  course!  I  quite  forgot  your  wonderful  house 
keeping." 

Ned  Hartley  flushed  at  his  mother's  philistine  candor. 


76  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"In  this  particular  room,  with  its  embrasures,  dull 
richness,  almost  medieval  simplicity,  I  should  hardly 
dare  to  shine  any  landlady's  cathedral  candlesticks," 
said  Mrs.  Doan.  The  humor  in  her  remark  was  not 
too  plain. 

"How  charmingly  the  whole  outside  approaches 
into  the  very  house,"  Miss  Lewis  put  in.  "There  are 
no  grounds  in  town  quite  so  appealing.  I  love  dear 
wild  spots  in  a  garden  when  vegetation  admits  of  them. 
Where  everything  grows  the  year  round  it  is  a  mistake 
to  be  too  tidy  with  Nature." 

"Mrs.  Grant  is  an  artist  —  a  genius  —  in  her  way," 
the  hostess  rejoined.  "She  certainly  understands 
semi-tropical  opportunities,  whereas  some  of  her  neigh 
bors  seem  only  to  think  of  the  well-kept  lawns  of  an 
Eastern  city." 

"Since  the  town  has  grown  so  large  and  shockingly 
up  to  date,  there  is  very  little  natural  charm  left 
anywhere,"  said  Gay  Lewis.  "Really  one  has  to  have 
better  gowns  and  more  of  them  out  here  than  in  New 
York  or  Chicago.  I  never  accepted  so  many  invita 
tions  for  inside  affairs  in  my  life  before.  I  positively 
have  no  time  for  tennis,  horseback,  or  golf.  I  just 
submit  to  the  same  things  we  do  at  home  and  spend 
almost  every  afternoon  at  bridge,  under  electric  light." 

Isabel  laughed.  "I  am  threatening  to  abjure  elec 
tricity  altogether  in  this  particular  room  —  burn  only 
candles  and  temple  lamps.  I  should  like  to  try  the 
effect  of  softened  light  on  nerves,"  she  confided. 
"After  sitting  in  a  jungle  of  the  garden,  I  could  come 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  77 

indoors  and  disregard  everything  but  day-dreams." 

"The  test  would  be  worth  while,"  Gay  agreed. 
"And  really,  I  should  like  to  have  a  day-dream 
myself." 

"Absurd!"  cried  Mrs.  Grace.  "The  room  is  dark 
enough  already.  With  nothing  but  candles  it  would  be 
worse  than  a  Maeterlinck  play.  And  how  could  one  see 
cards  by  a  temple  lamp?  " 

"Won't  you  be  seated?  "  Isabel  asked  of  Ned  Hartley, 
still  standing.  "You  have  worked  so  hard  passing  tea; 
do  enjoy  yourself."  A  momentous  question  went  un 
answered.  "See!  I  am  dropping  preserved  cherries 
into  your  cup  —  true  Russian  brewing.  Delicious ! " 
the  hostess  promised. 

Hartley  moved  a  chair.    "  May  I  sit  here?  "  he  begged. 

"Of  course.  You  deserve  my  fervent  attention. 
Shall  I  give  you  orange  marmalade  with  your  biscuit?" 

"Anything  —  everything!"  he  answered,  all  but 
dead  to  the  sustained  prattle  of  the  other  women.  "  It's 
awfully  good  of  you  to  look  out  for  me,"  he  added,  with 
an  adoring  glance.  "And  you  will  let  me  take  you 
out  in  the  machine  —  to-morrow?"  he  pleaded. 

Isabel  smiled.     "You  are  very  kind." 

Miss  Lewis  was  standing  by  the  table  with  her  cup. 
"We  shall  never  let  you  rest  until  the  thing  is  quite 
empty,"  she  declared.  "Cherries,  please,  instead  of 
lemon.  As  I  said  before,  you  are  a  lucky,  lucky  girl 
to  drop  into  such  a  place." 

From  a  pillowed  lair  Mrs.  Grace  protested.  "Don't 
tell  her  that,"  she  begged.  "The  house  and  garden 


78  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

are  well  enough,  to  be  sure;  yet  after  all  one  comes  from 
home  to  be  free  from  care.  I  cannot  understand  Isa 
bel's  prejudice  against  hotels.  There  is  nothing  so 
pleasant  as  a  good  one,  when  one  is  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.  I  like  life!  something  doing.  Last 
winter  we  had  bridge  every  afternoon  and  evening. 
The  guests  at  the  Archangel  were  delightful  —  so 
generous  about  buying  prizes.  And  of  mornings  the 
Japanese  auctions  right  down  the  street  were  so  divert 
ing.  Of  course  we  went  every  day  —  got  such  bar 
gains,  even  marked  Azon  vases  for  almost  nothing. 
It  was  so  easy  to  buy  your  Christmas  presents." 

"How  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley.  "Do  the 
auctions  take  place  every  season?" 

"Always  in  the  spring.  And  they  are  such  an  edu 
cation!"  Mrs.  Grace  persisted.  "Then  it  is  so  exciting 
when  you  really  want  something.  Of  course  one  does 
not  always  know  what  to  do  with  so  many  trifles,  for 
often  one  does  not  expect  to  get  caught  on  a  bid.  Still 
the  sport  is  great  and  usually  the  things  are  good 
enough  to  send  East  to  relatives,  or  else  to  give  to  maids 
about  the  hotel."  Mrs.  Grace  laughed  at  her  frank 
confession.  "To  be  honest,"  she  continued,  "I  am 
bored  to  death  by  our  present  mode  of  life.  What 
Isabel  finds  in  housekeeping  I  can't  understand." 

"Poor  Aunt  Julia!"  Mrs.  Doan  flushed  at  an  un 
expected  chance.  "I  see  that  I  have  been  very  self 
ish,"  she  owned,  mischievously.  "Alas!  I  am  too 
content  to  give  up,  after  working  hard  to  find  so  much ! 
Then  outside  of  personal  delight  —  there  is  my  boy. 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  79 

He  is  the  happiest  little  soul  imaginable !  You  should 
see  him  in  his  overalls!  How  could  I  deprive  him  of 
his  home  for  another  whole  year?"  the  mother  pleaded. 

"He  was  well  enough  last  winter,"  said  Mrs.  Grace. 

"Dear  Aunt  Julia,  our  friends  will  think  that  we  are 
quarreling.  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  unhappy. 
As  soon  as  the  Archangel  reopens  you  must  take  rooms 
and  enjoy  yourself  as  usual." 

The  woman,  never  prepared  for  a  climax,  rose  from 
her  pillows.  "Take  rooms  at  the  Archangel!  leave  you 
unchaperoned ! "  she  cried  in  blunt  dismay.  "Why, 
Isabel  Doan,  what  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"I  should  not  be  alone,"  the  niece  answered.  "My 
old  French  governess,  Madame  Sabot,  is  begging  to 
come  to  California.  By  this  time  she  is  doubtless  an 
ogress,  well  able  to  guard  me." 

A  hot  wave  of  suspicion  swept  the  aunt's  counte 
nance. 

"For  that  small  matter,"  cried  Miss  Lewis,  "I might 
do  as  well  as  madame.  Take  me  for  your  chaperone ! 
won't  you,  dear?  I  should  love  to  act  in  the  capacity. 
You  know,  a  mere  infant  companion  is  all  that  is  neces 
sary  nowadays  —  the  best  of  form.  And  I  am  posi 
tively  old,  older  than  yourself,"  she  coolly  owned. 
Miss  Lewis  rose  from  her  chair  with  vanishing  hopes  of 
Ned  Hartley's  continued  devotion.  The  boy  was 
heeding  Isabel's  slightest  word. 

"You  must  over  think  my  application,"  she  jested. 
"  If  Mrs.  Grace  decides  to  join  mother  at  the  Archangel 
I  shall  certainly  hope  to  displace  your  French  ogress. 


80  THE  HIGHER   COURT 

Meantime,  we  must  be  going.  I  have  asked  a  man 
from  the  city  to  dinner;  he  will  put  in  an  appearance 
before  I  am  fit.  So  sorry  we  cannot  stop  to  see  the 
boy  in  his  nest.  I  understand  he  slumbers  on  a  roof 
top  —  under  the  stars — like  everyone  else  out  here. 
Isn't  sleeping  out  of  doors  a  fad?  So  admirable  for  the 
complexion !  Really  one  might  leave  the  country  with 
a  decent  bank  balance,  if  only  one  had  nerve  to  rent 
an  oak  tree  instead  of  rooms  in  a  hotel."  She  chat 
tered  gaily  above  the  others,  to  the  verge  of  the  waiting 
car. 

While  the  machine  gathered  power,  Ned  Hartley 
hung  on  Isabel's  promise  just  gained.  "To-morrow 
—  to-morrow  at  three,"  he  impressed  again.  Miss 
Lewis  heard  his  invitation,  then  blew  the  horn  with 
ironic  smile. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.  GRACE  had  not  accompanied  the  depart 
ing  guests  to  the  door.  As  the  machine  sped 
away  Isabel  realized  her  aunt's  displeasure 
and  braced  against  a  scene.  The  time  for  plain  words 
had  arrived.  She  went  slowly  into  the  living-room, 
building  up  as  best  she  could  a  line  of  defense  for  cer 
tain  attack.  By  the  glow  of  a  wood  fire,  wreathing 
flame  up  the  wide  chimney,  she  saw  her  aunt's  face;  it 
was  pale  and  tense  with  suspicion.  Hate  for  the  man, 
once  her  idolized  confessor,  had  transformed  the  care 
fully  preserved  woman  into  one  far  from  attractive. 
She  seemed  to  gather  vituperative  force  beyond  her 
strength,  for  suddenly  she  stopped  pacing  the  room  to 
sink  to  a  chair.  Isabel  turned,  frightened. 

"Aunt  Julia!  Aunt  Julia,  what  is  the  matter?"  She 
spoke,  running  forward. 

Mrs.  Grace  motioned  her  away.  "Don't  pretend!" 
she  cried.  "I  have  seen  from  the  very  beginning  — 
known  exactly  what  you  were  both  doing."  Isabel  said 
nothing.  It  was  the  older  woman's  opportunity. 
"Not  building  the  cathedral  was  only  an  excuse  for 
all  that  is  still  to  come.  You  have  ruined  a  man  who 
otherwise  must  have  been  a  saint!"  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  which  suddenly  became  gray  and 
drawn  beneath  their  weight  of  glistening  gems.  In 
anger,  Mrs.  Grace  looked  old. 

81 


82  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

"What  kind  of  a  life  do  you  expect  to  lead  with  a 
traitor  to  both  his  faith  and  his  honor?  Do  you  sup 
pose  for  a  moment  that  he  will  forget !  throw  away  his 
soul  without  longing  to  repent?  I  wish  you  joy  of 
your  conquest,  Isabel  Doan;  and  remember,  I  am  tell 
ing  you  the  truth,  even  though  you  have  turned  me 
from  your  house  after  all  my  devotion."  Mrs.  Grace 
sobbed  hysterically.  Isabel  was  at  first  stunned  by  her 
aunt's  evil  predictions ;  then  she  tried  to  speak.  "You 
needn't  excuse  him!"  the  angry  woman  forbade.  "I 
have  heard  your  loose  arguments  before  now.  Don't 
tell  me  that  it  is  better  to  break  a  sacred  vow  than  to 
keep  it  with  rebellion!  I  will  not  listen  to  you."  She 
crossed  herself  against  possible  harm.  "Read  all  the 
pagan  books  you  can  find;  but  don't  forget  my  words. 
I  must  leave  you  as  soon  as  possible,  for,  of  course,  after 
my  treatment  this  afternoon  I  cannot  intrude." 

"Aunt  Julia!"  Isabel  sank  at  her  feet.  "Please 
let  us  part  friends,"  she  pleaded.  "You  have  been 
very  good  to  me;  if  only  you  could  understand  —  let 
me  tell  you  things  which  you  do  not  know " 

Mrs.  Grace  sprang  up. 

"And  you  intend  to  really  marry  that  man ! "  Isabel 
flamed  scarlet.  "You  actually  expect  to  go  through 
with  the  farce  of  a  religious  service?  Well,  you  had 
better  remember  that  marriage  vows  are  more  easily 
broken  than  any  others.  Don't  be  a  fool  —  a  prude 
about  mere  form  —  if  you  care  to  keep  a  lover;  for 
mark  my  words,  the  man  who  has  been  untrue  to  his 
Church  will  find  it  much  easier  to  forget  a  wife."  Vindic- 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  83 

tive  zeal  gave  Mrs.  Grace  hard  fluency.  And  the  in 
sult  which  Isabel  had  not  expected  made  her  own  part 
clear.  She  rose  from  the  floor  straight  and  firm. 

"I  feel  that  it  is  not  too  late  for  you  to  leave  me  this 
evening;  if  you  think  differently,  I  can  take  Reginald 
and  Maggie  into  Los  Angeles  while  you  find  another 
home.  After  what  you  have  said  it  is  impossible  for 
us  to  sleep  beneath  the  same  roof." 

Her  wounded  womanhood  stood  out  superbly.  She 
walked  from  the  room.  Above,  with  her  door  locked 
against  every  one,  she  burst  into  tears.  With  burning 
face  in  the  pillow  she  wept  out  her  heart.  In  all  her 
life  she  had  never  felt  so  hurt  and  miserable.  Would 
the  world  regard  her  marriage  to  Philip  Barry  in  the 
same  wretched  light  as  her  aunt?  Then  perhaps  the 
Catholic  woman  was  right;  after  all  she  —  a  heretic — 
might  not  be  able  to  hold  the  man  who  was  now  willing 
to  give  up  everything  for  love.  And  she  had  induced 
him  to  take  the  fatal  step.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
understand  the  force  of  Catholic  vows. 

She  sat  up,  gazing  through  the  window  at  the  full  top  of 
a  eucalyptus  tree,  dark,  and  wonderfully  etched  against 
lingering  gold  of  sunset.  Why  should  she  be  miserable 
in  a  world  as  lovely  as  the  one  about  her?  She  longed 
for  the  happiness  which  belonged  to  her  youth  and 
station.  Again  she  recalled  every  word  which  she  had 
said  to  Philip  Barry  at  the  side  of  his  mother's  casket. 
To  her  straightforward  nature  she  had  advised  him 
wisely.  With  reason  unbiased  by  dogmatic  training; 
with  her  soul,  honest  as  a  child's,  she  felt  no  shame 


84  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

for  what  she  had  done.  And  it  was  now  too  late  to 
hesitate.  She  had  sent  the  message  and  she  must 
hold  to  it  with  her  life,  her  womanhood.  She  bathed 
her  eyes,  still  going  over  the  main  facts  of  her  lover's 
disgrace  in  the  Catholic  world.  She  came  back  always 
to  the  main  point;  he  only  committed  a  mistake  when 
he  had  gone  into  the  priesthood  without  realizing  the 
price.  He  had  tried  in  vain  to  live  a  life  of  self-denial, 
of  enforced  conformity,  whereas  both  attempts  were 
totally  unsuited  to  his  temperament  and  mentality. 
He  had  made  a  false  step  in  the  wrong  direction;  why, 
then,  should  he  go  on?  It  were  better  to  stop  than 
to  stumble  and  fall.  When  a  lawyer  failed  in  the  pro 
fession  none  thought  worse  of  him  when  he  succeeded 
with  literature.  And  the  doctor,  unable  to  grasp 
physical  ills  of  casual  patients,  carried  no  stain  on  his 
honor  if  he  discovered  some  other  calling.  It  could 
not  be  right  to  denounce  a  physician  in  charge  of  souls 
because  he  would  not  go  on  with  a  spiritual  travesty. 
Philip's  disappointment  in  regard  to  the  cathedral, 
his  unjust  treatment  by  his  bishop,  his  thwarted 
ambition, — these  things  she  put  to  one  side  in  a  final 
summing  up.  All  seemed  secondary  to  the  confession 
of  the  man  who  had  stood  by  the  side  of  his  dead 
Catholic  mother.  He  had  said  that  he  could  no  longer 
continue  his  priesthood,  because  he  had  ceased  to  be 
false  with  himself.  That  to  Isabel  made  sufficient 
reason  for  all  that  had  happened  —  for  all  to  follow. 
She  covered  the  case  by  direct  standards  of  her  own 
truthful  nature.  This  evening,  looking  into  the  golden 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  85 

sunset,  she  could  find  no  justifiable  bar  to  marriage 
with  Philip  Barry. 

When  Maggie  tapped  on  the  door  she  opened  it 
calmly.  The  girl  was  vaguely  conscious  of  sudden 
disturbance.  "Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Doan.  "Mrs. 
Grace  is  leaving  this  evening,"  she  explained.  "If 
possible,  you  must  help  with  her  packing.  I  shall  not 
be  down  to  dinner.  I  am  tired  and  will  lie  down 
outside  with  Reginald;  you  need  not  disturb  me. 
Should  I  need  you  I  can  ring."  Isabel  had  partly 
undressed. 

"You  won't  have  anything  to  eat?"  the  nursemaid 
questioned. 

"Nothing  now,  perhaps  later."  Mrs.  Doan  hastened 
to  put  on  a  padded  robe.  Her  hair  fell  about  her 
shoulders. 

She  separated  the  shining  mass,  weaving  it  into  braids, 
as  she  went,  almost  running,  to  her  sleeping  son. 
An  upper  balcony,  partially  protected  by  canvas, 
made  his  cozy  nest.  At  the  south  and  east  there  was 
nothing  to  shut  out  the  stars,  while  at  dawn  peaks 
beyond  the  northern  range  rose  daik  and  sharp  through 
zones  of  burning  rose.  Isabel  cast  herself  upon  her 
own  bed.  Delicious  air  cooled  her  burning  cheeks  and 
she  could  hear  the  gentle,  regular  breathing  of  her  boy. 
She  had  no  thought  of  sleep.  Her  only  wish  was  to  es 
cape  to  a  place  cut  off  from  her  aunt's  temporary  ter 
ritory.  Now  she  would  wait.  Her  heart  was  kind,  and 
in  retreat  she  began  to  feel  sorry  for  the  woman  with 
whom  she  had  parted.  Mrs.  Grace  was  only  half 


86  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

sister  to  Isabel's  father,  and  far  back  the  little  girl  had 
wondered  why  her  pretty  aunty  so  often  quarreled  with 
her  family.  Once  she  heard  her  father  declare  that 
Julia's  nose  and  hands  seemed  to  guarantee  a  lady, 
but  she  had  caught  no  more.  At  the  time  she  did  not 
understand;  since  then  she  had  grown  older  and  wiser. 
She  sank  upon  the  pillow  gratefully.  Below  there  was 
a  stir  of  running  feet,  a  commotion  at  the  telephone. 
Isabel  tried  to  forget  her  own  inhospitable  part.  Once 
she  half  rose  from  bed,  half  believed  that  she  would 
face  her  hysterical  aunt  with  overtures  of  peace.  Then 
she  felt  the  foolishness  of  going  through  with  every 
thing  again.  Mrs.  Grace  was  impossible  after  what 
had  taken  place.  Sounds  about  the  house  continued. 
The  angry  woman  proposed  to  take  her  own  time  for 
packing;  and  it  was  nearly  midnight  before  Isabel  be 
came  sure  that  an  unwelcome  guest  had  gone.  Above  with 
the  boy,  she  watched  the  stars  grow  brighter,  listened 
to  night  calls  of  stirring  birds ,  wondered  about  Philip 
Barry  at  the  other  side  of  the  world.  Now  at  last  she 
was  alone  in  the  house  with  Reginald  and  the  servants. 
She  got  up  and  went  below,  to  find  Maggie  crying  in 
the  hall.  The  girl  hid  a  crimson  face  and  Isabel  knew 
that  Mrs.  Grace  had  enlightened  her  in  regard  to  a  com 
ing  event.  As  one  Catholic  to  another,  she  had  warned 
the  nursemaid  to  protect  her  soul  from  evil  influence. 

"You  may  go  to  bed,"  Mrs.  Doan  commanded. 
Maggie  turned  away,  then  came  back.  Her  voice 
failed  and  she  pointed  to  the  dining  room,  where  a  little 
supper  was  daintily  set  out.  She  sobbed  her  way  to 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  87 

the  back  of  the  house,  then  above  to  her  room.  Isabel 
was  alone.  She  had  hardly  dreamed  of  freedom,  yet 
now  it  was  here.  The  fire  in  the  living-room  still 
burned;  and  like  a  child,  she  took  a  bowl  of  milk  and 
bread  and  sat  down  on  a  rug  before  glowing  embers. 
In  spite  of  all  she  felt  happy.  She  was  hungry,  too; 
and  after  she  had  eaten  every  mouthful  she  sat  on, — 
thinking  of  Philip. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  took  Isabel  nearly  a  month  to  throw  off  the  effect 
of  her  aunt's  angry  departure.     At  the  end  of 
that  time  the  cheery  French  woman  arrived  to 
take  the  place  of  Mrs.  Grace,  who  had  gone  from  the 
town  to  St.  Barnabas.     Still  later,  Isabel  heard  with 
strange  relief  that  her  aunt  no  longer  enjoyed  Cali 
fornia  and  was  about  to  seek  excitement  in  New  York. 
She  felt  glad  that  Mrs.  Grace  would  be  at  the  far  side 
of  the  continent  before  the  coming  of  Philip  Barry. 

Isabel  had  not  kept  her  engagement  with  Ned  Hartley 
the  morning  after  the  trouble;  but  the  next  day  and 
for  days  following  she  toured  in  the  machine  with  the 
elate  boy  and  his  mother.  Mrs.  Lewis  and  Gay  were 
often  of  the  party.  To  spin  through  a  country  growing 
fresher,  more  enchanting  with  each  welcome  rain  was 
a  tonic.  Isabel  rebounded.  And  at  last  Philip  had 
started  for  home.  She  now  thought  of  little  else  and 
her  heart  grew  light  as  days  slipped  away.  To  restore 
the  man  whom  she  had  unduly  influenced;  to  bring 
him  in  touch  with  happiness;  to  lead  him  in  his  new 
career  to  honor,  even  to  fame,  grew  into  a  passionate 
hope  as  time  went  by.  Philip  was  already  hers.  She 
would  make  him  forget,  help  him  to  consecrate  his 
talents  anew  to  art  and  letters.  He  must  write  books 
and  be  glad  that  he  was  no  longer  a  priest,  bound  with 
forms  and  obsolescent  vows.  His  brilliant  mind 

88 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  89 

should  be  free  to  develop,  his  manhood  to  grow  un 
restrained.  Isabel's  own  unorthodox  view  was  so 
wholly  conceived  out  of  intellect  and  evolving  mercy 
that  retribution  and  remorse  were  not  pictured  as  pos 
sible  punishments  reserved  for  an  apostate  Catholic 
once  a  priest. 

Her  one  thought  was  to  make  the  man  who  had  suf 
fered  from  an  almost  fatal  mistake  happy.  When  once 
he  felt  the  surging  joy  of  love,  opportunity,  his  past 
life  would  cease  to  trouble  him.  Isabel  was  young 
and  confident.  She  felt  sure  of  everything.  The  day, 
wonderfully  bright  and  exhilarating,  called  her  into 
the  garden,  where  she  found  Reginald.  The  boy  had 
dug  a  flower  bed  with  a  tiny  spade;  then,  too  impatient 
to  think  of  seeds,  had  broken  full  blooming  geraniums 
into  stubby  shoots  and  planted  each  one  with  a  shout 
of  laughter. 

"See  my  garden!  mother  dear,"  he  cried,  as  Isabel 
approached.  "It's  all  weddy  —  growed  beau-ti-f ul ! " 
He  clapped  dirt-stained  hands  and  bounced  about  in 
his  blue  overalls. 

Maggie  raised  a  tear-stained  face  from  where  she 
was  sitting.  Her  only  outlet  seemed  to  be  weeping. 
"To  think  that  I  must  leave  him!"  she  sobbed.  "It 
breaks  my  heart  to  go,  and  nothing  but  Mike  insisting 
that  we  get  married  could  part  me  from  my  boy."  She 
wound  her  arms  about  her  little  charge.  Mrs.  Doan 
saw  that  the  girl  held  a  letter.  "It's  to  San  Francisco 
he  bids  me  come,"  she  went  on.  In  her  excitement  she 
had  lapsed  into  old-country  expression.  "And  he 


90  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

thinks  I  can  get  married  with  no  warnin'.  Married 
indeed!  Married  without  a  stitch  but  store  clothes. 
I  would  like  to  send  him  walkin'  back  East,  with  the 
chance  of  a  better  man." 

"You  must  not  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Doan,  now  re 
conciled  to  the  girl's  departure.  Reginald  was  growing 
fast,  and  with  Madame  Sabot  and  an  English  nurse 
in  readiness  to  fill  the  Irish  maid's  place,  the  boy  would 
find  his  daily  education  an  easy  matter. 

"Poor  Maggie's  so  sick,  mother  dear,"  the  little 
fellow  explained.  He  threw  his  arms  about  the  neck 
of  his  weeping  nurse,  kissing  her  loudly.  "Now  poor 
Maggie  is  all  well!"  he  exulted.  "Didn't  Reggie  give 
Maggie  a  nice,  big,  fat  kiss!"  He  went  back  satisfied 
to  his  miniature  garden,  while  at  the  same  moment  Ned 
Hartley  rushed  down  the  terrace.  "Where  are  you 
all?"  he  cried.  His  manner  had  grown  free  and  con 
fident  since  his  first  tea-drinking  in  Mrs.  Doan's 
drawing-room.  This  morning  his  boyish  face  glowed 
with  expectation.  "Do  hurry,"  he  begged.  "You 
are  surely  coming?  'The  mater'  is  waiting  in  the 
machine  and  the  day's  bully."  He  pressed  his  wish 
at  Isabel's  side.  She  led  him  beyond  the  range  of 
Maggie's  ears. 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  cannot  go;  Reginald's  nurse  is 
leaving  at  once,"  she  explained. 

"But  I  have  found  your  horses!"  young  Hartley 
tempted.  "You  must  come  and  pass  judgment  on  the 
finest  span  in  the  country.  They  are  beauties  —  per 
fect  beauties!  I  ran  the  owner  down  by  mere  chance; 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  91 

and  we'll  find  him  on  a  foothill  ranch,  with  the  pair  in 
question,  saddle  horses,  too.  You  simply  must  come 
if  you  really  wish  for  a  snap."  His  enthusiasm  was 
contagious. 

"You  are  good,"  Isabel  answered. 

"Then  you  should  reward  me  with  your  company. 
Bring  old  madame  and  the  boy." 

Reginald's  ears  had  caught  the  invitation.  "Come, 
mother  dear!"  he  cried.  "Come  wight  away."  His 
glee  bubbled.  The  uncomprehended  tears  of  his  nurse 
were  forgotten  as  he  placed  his  hand  in  Ned's. 

"See  the  mischief  you  have  wrought,"  said  Isabel. 
"It  is  too  late  for  Reggie  to  go  from  home  —  almost 
time  for  his  bath  and  nap,"  she  announced  decidedly. 

"But,  mother  dear,"  the  blue  eyes  flashed  mutiny, 
"But,  mother  dear,  Reggie  must  have  a  good  time!" 
The  ruling  passion  of  the  age  possessed  the  infant's 
soul;  to  enjoy  life  topped  every  other  thought. 

The  child  drew  Hartley  forward  with  all  his  strength. 
"Come  right  away,"  he  coaxed.  "I  want  to  get  my 
red  coat." 

"But  darling,"  Isabel  protested,  "you  cannot  go 
in  the  machine  this  morning.  Here  comes  Maggie 
to  give  you  your  bath;  go  with  her  at  once." 

A  struggle  was  on.  "  You  must  go  with  nurse.  You 
may  not  have  a  good  time  this  morning.  Another  day 
you  shall  ride  in  the  automobile  if  you  are  obedient." 

The  child  surveyed  his  mother.  She  showed  no  sign 
of  weakening.  For  an  instant  his  lips  trembled;  a  cry 
half  escaped  them,  then  he  rushed  into  Maggie's  arms. 


92  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

"To-morrow  Reggie  may  go,  to-morrow!"  he  re 
peated  with  baby  confidence.  Two  sturdy,  adorable 
legs  went  peaceably  forward  across  the  lawn.  With 
every  step  the  boy  evoked  some  happy  future  day  —  a 
glad  to-morrow. 

"You're  the  slickest  mater  on  record!"  exclaimed 
Hartley.  "How  do  you  do  it?  I  believe  you  might 
subdue  a  labor  strike  if  you  tried.  No  man  could  re 
sist  you  long.  And  any  fellow  would  be  bound  to  do 
things,  make  something  of  himself,  if  only  he  might 
have  you  to  keep  him  level."  That  he  had  known 
Mrs.  Doan  but  a  short  time  escaped  his  mind.  Sud 
denly  he  was  pushing  his  cause  with  youthful  ardor. 
"If  you  could  only  care  for  me!"  he  cried.  "Only 
believe  that  I  really  would  amount  to  something  if 
you  gave  me  the  chance.  Why  can't  I  prove  it  to 
you?  Indeed,  I  would  do  everything  that  you  wished 
me  to  —  be  as  good  as  Reg  —  upon  my  word ! "  Isabel 
raised  startled  eyes  in  mute  entreaty.  "Let  me  finish," 
the  boy  implored.  "I  know  just  what  you  think,  so 
please  do  not  tell  me.  You  have  heard  about  the 
scrape  at  college,  all  about  my  getting  fired,  my  father's 
anger,  everything  abominable.  And  it  is  true,  all  true, 
— I  was  an  ass,  a  perfect  ass.  I  admit  it.  But  you  see 
I'm  different  now.  I  can  be  a  man,  even  if  I  didn't  get 
through  college  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth.  If  you  would 
only  marry  me  father  would  overlook  every  thing!  set  me 
up  in  any  kind  of  business  I  liked.  And  besides,  'the 
mater '  has  much  more  money  than  dad.  She's  simply 
crazy  about  you  —  almost  as  crazy  as  I  am." 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  93 

"My  dear  boy,"  cried  Isabel,  feeling  very  wise  and 
old,  "you  must  stop.  If  you  say  another  foolish  word 
our  pleasant  friendship  will  have  to  end  right  here." 

"But  it  isn't  foolish  to  love  you,  to  be  mad  with 
good  resolutions  for  your  sake,"  he  pleaded.  "Of 
course,  if  you  won't  listen  to  me  now  I  must  wait.  And 
I  will  wait  —  wait  just  like  Reg  —  until  to-morrow!" 
His  whole  being  reflected  new  resolve. 

" Then  be  reasonable.  Go  back  to  college;  finish  the 
course  your  position  in  life  demands;  please  your 
father;  be  good."  They  moved  slowly  to  the  house. 

"And  I  may  hope  when  I  get  my  sheepskin?" 

"No !  no ! "  she  cried.  "I  meant  nothing  of  the  kind. 

I  could  never,  never  marry  you.  Even  if "  she 

hesitated  —  "it  can  never  be,"  she  finished. 

"Then  there  is  some  one  else?" 

"There  is  some  one  else,"  she  answered  in  a  voice 
so  true  that  its  cadence  hurt  the  more. 

Ned  looked  upon  the  ground;  then  he  lifted  hopeless 
eyes.  "  Of  course  I  am  an  ass;  I  always  was  one.  But 
you  will  come  out  in  the  machine?  I  haven't  the  nerve 
to  explain;  and  I'll  help  you  find  the  horses  —  for  the 
other  man "  he  choked  out. 

Isabel  could  not  refuse  the  humble  request. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  luxurious  touring  car  sped  away.     In  the 
tonneau  Mrs.  Hartley  and  madame  chatted 
with  no  suspicion  of  Ned's  unhappy  state.     The 
morning  was  glorious. 

"Please  come,"  the  boy  had  begged;  then  added, 
"if  you  don't,  'the  mater'  will  want  to  know  the 
reason  why." 

"We  must  be  the  best  of  friends,"  Isabel  whispered, 
as  she  took  her  place  in  front. 

"Is  ze  country  not  de-vine?"  cried  the  old  French 
woman.  "So  like  La  Riviera!  my  southern  France!" 

Mrs.  Hartley  coughed.  "The  dust  is  a  drawback." 
she  complained. 

"But  it  does  not  rise  in  ze  nostril  —  drive  upon  ze 
face;  there  is  no  wind  to  make  rough  ze  flesh,"  the 
other  argued.  "At  San  Francisco  ze  little  stone  rise 
from  ze  ground,  hit  ze  eye!  And  in  Chicago  ze  wind 
blow  fierce,  make  sore  ze  throat."  Mrs.  Hartley 
tightened  her  veil.  "Ze  south  California  is  good — 
dear  Madame  Hartley  —  good  beyond  every  land  but 
France."  Madame  Sabot  laughed  like  a  happy  child. 
"Am  I  not  blessed  to  stay  in  ze  paradise?  To  live 
wis  my  angel  children?  Since  ten  years  I  have  no 
home  —  only  trouble.  Tes  grande!"  she  cried,  "ze 
tree;  I  forget  ze  name." 

"Eucalyptus,"  prompted  Isabel,   turning  backward. 

94 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  95 

"U-ca-lip-tus,"  madame  repeated.  "Not  trim  like 
ze  Lombardy  poplar,  but  so  tall!  so  tall!" 

The  giant  stood  by  the  wayside.  The  round,  smooth 
trunk,  expanding  each  year  from  beneath  girders  of 
loosening  bark,  lifted  a  weight  of  inaccessible  white 
blossoms  to  the  sky.  Peeled  to  a  shining  mauve,  the 
mighty  stalk  shot  up  to  swaying,  dull  green  branches. 
From  lower  irregular  limbs  long  ribbons  of  sloughing 
fiber  hung  in  the  gentle  breeze,  until  rain  or  a  transient 
gust  sent  them  rattling  to  the  ground.  When  threat 
ening  moisture  lay  along  the  range  the  giant  eucalyptus 
loved  to  plunge  into  inky  clouds,  to  bend  anon,  a  tower 
ing  helmet  of  sable  plumes.  This  every  artist  saw; 
and  in  her  own  excitable  way  the  French  woman  felt 
the  passion  of  the  wayside  monarch. 

"Tes  grande!"  she  cried,  with  parting  wave  of  her 
hand. 

"I  see  no  beauty  in  a  eucalyptus,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley. 
"If  I  had  a  place  here  I  should  not  have  one  of  them 
about  —  such  untidy  trees !  It  would  drive  me  dis 
tracted  to  see  loose  strings  swinging  overhead.  Then 
when  the  fiber  drops  it  is  even  more  annoying.  Falling 
leaves  are  bad  enough,  but  falling  bark !  I  could  never 
endure  that.  At  Lakeside  —  our  country  place  —  Mr. 
Hartley  and  Ned  rave  over  dried  maple  leaves;  but  I 
assure  you  I  have  them  raked  up  each  morning.  I 
really  could  not  endure  the  autumn  if  I  permitted 
myself  to  be  buried  under  dead  leaves.  I  should 
be  too  blue.  With  rheumatic  gout  I  am  miserable 
enough." 


96  THE  HIGHER   COURT 

"But  ze  California  will  make  ze  cure.  Not  one 
bad  head  since  I  find  ze  happy  land,"  old  madame 
declared. 

The  chatter  at  the  back  of  the  car  made  rare  enter 
tainment  for  Isabel,  who  listened  by  reason  of  Ned 
Hartley's  unsociable  mood.  The  boy  was  deep  in 
sulks.  He  ran  the  machine  so  carelessly  that  his 
mother  began  to  complain. 

"Don't  be  cross;  please  be  nice,"  Mrs.  Doan  begged, 
softly. 

They  were  skirting  the  foothills,  headed  for  an  upland 
ranch. 

"  Won't  you  prepare  me  a  little  for  what  I  am  to  see 
—  tell  me  about  the  horses?  "  she  coaxed. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  Ned  answered,  out  of 
gloom.  "I  just  happened  to  notice  the  span  in  town; 
then  I  traced  their  owner  through  a  livery  stable 
groom.  You  may  not  like  them,"  he  added,  with 
trying  unconcern. 

"I  am  sure  that  I  shall  love  them.  And  it  was  good 
of  you  to  go  to  so  much  trouble."  The  boy's  rudeness 
should  be  ignored.  "Did  you  know  that  I  have  always 
been  wild  about  horses?"  He  made  no  response  and 
she  went  on.  "Ever  since  I  was  a  small  girl  I  have 
loved  to  gallop  over  the  country.  Now  I  am  going  to 
indulge  myself;  have  not  only  a  carriage  span,  but  two 
saddle  horses  —  the  very  best  ones  we  can  find." 

"I  presume  Reginald  is  about  to  mount? "  Ned  was 
madly  jealous.  The  question  brought  a  flush  to 
Isabel's  cheeks. 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  97 

"I  expect  him  to  ride,"  she  answered,  "but  of  course 
on  a  pony." 

The  automobile  landed  in  a  rut,  then  bounded  up 
ward  and  onward.  "Why,  Ned!"  cried  Mrs.  Hartley. 
"What  is  the  matter?  If  you  can't  run  the  machine 
more  evenly  you  had  better  bring  Adolph  when  next 
we  come  out."  The  rebuke  was  smothered  in  a  rhap 
sody  by  madame.  "Behold!"  she  cried,  "behold  ze 
landscape!"  But  the  too  evident  attempt  to  allay  the 
mother's  criticism  fell  flat.  The  lady  continued  to 
suffer  with  every  jar.  Neither  the  dazzling  contour 
of  the  lifting  range,  nor  a  wonderful  valley,  sweeping 
from  foothills  to  the  distant,  glistening  sea,  could 
distract  her  mind  from  personal  complaints. 

It  was  a  relief  when  a  sudden  detour  landed  the 
machine  on  a  cross  way,  leading  through  interlacing 
pepper  trees,  to  a  small  but  attractive  bungalow. 
A  pretty,  neatly  dressed  young  woman  sat  on  the  porch 
sewing.  She  rose  as  the  car  stopped. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said,  "my  husband  is  with  the 
horses."  She  pointed  to  whitewashed  paddocks  at 
the  left  some  distance  beyond  the  peppers.  "Please 
keep  going,  the  road  leads  straight;  my  husband  will 
hear  the  machine." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Doan.  "You  are  fortunate 
to  have  such  a  location  for  your  home.  You  must 
enjoy  living  here?  " 

"Oh,  we  do.  Of  course  not  every  one  cares  for  a  foot 
hill  ranch,  but  we  are  never  lonely."  She  had  a  flower- 
like  face  and  her  simple  refinement  was  charming. 


98  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"I  hope  you  will  like  the  horses,"  she  went  on.  "Now 
that  we  have  decided  to  let  two  of  them  go,  the  quicker 
the  better."  She  laughed  musically,  then  explained. 
"  My  husband  has  often  refused  to  part  with  his  famous 
four,  since  they  won  the  chariot  race,  two  years  ago. 
You  have  heard  about  New  Year's  Day  in  Pasadena? 
All  strangers  look  forward  to  the  flower  parade,  fol 
lowed  by  genuine  Roman  chariot  races.  And  the 
running  of  thoroughbreds,  four  abreast,  is  fine!"  Her 
blue  eyes  kindled. 

"I  should  think  your  husband  would  try  again," 
said  Ned. 

"Oh,  he  will,  but  with  a  different  four.  He  does  not 
wish  to  repeat  his  victory  with  the  same  horses,  for 
last  year  there  was  trouble." 

"Possibly  he  might  part  with  the  noted  quartette? 
If  two  of  them  answered  for  the  saddle  —  are  not  too 
wild,"  Mrs.  Doan  added. 

"Oh,  no,"  the  young  wife  answered.  "Hawley  would 
never  consider  selling  Delia  or  her  running  mate.  We 
could  not  let  those  two  go."  She  flushed  with  her 
ingenuous  confidence.  "Delia  is  named  for  me.  A 
little  romance  in  which  she  took  leading  part  must 
always  insure  her  pasture  on  our  ranch." 

"Come  with  us  in  the  machine,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley. 
"Do  be  good  enough  to  show  us  'Delia,'  "  said  Mrs. 
Doan.  "We  are  now  doubly  interested  in  your  hus 
band's  horses." 

Isabel  smiled  in  her  rare  way.  The  woman  of  the 
foothills  had  once  been  a  school  teacher  and  felt  the 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  99 

irresistible  charm  of  the  beautiful  stranger's  manner. 
To  peer  at  life  below  the  mesa  was  an  opportunity,  and 
the  rancher's  young  wife  threw  aside  a  fresh  gingham 
apron  and  entered  the  car.  She  sat  in  the  center,  half 
turned  in  a  revolving  chair,  where  her  eyes  covertly 
caught  the  elegant  but  simple  effect  of  Mrs.  Doan's 
morning  toilet.  She  had  never  seen  any  one  so  neatly 
put  up  against  ravages  of  wind  and  dust.  Isabel's 
earlier  freshness  remained;  and  the  large  purple  hat 
securely  veiled  for  touring  seemed  duly  created  to 
protect  her  golden  hair.  The  older  ladies  were  kind 
and  the  little  woman  of  the  foothills  enjoyed  the  short 
spin  through  the  avenue  of  peppers  to  paddocks  beyond. 

"You  never  lock  your  door?  "  Mrs.  Hartley  questioned. 

"  No,  indeed.  No  one  would  think  of  stealing  up  here ! 
Every  one  is  honest  where  every  one  sleeps,  eats,  and 
lives  out  of  doors." 

"Of  course,"  said  Isabel.  "How  wonderful  this  up 
land  country  is ;  I  envy  you  a  home  beneath  the  moun 
tains.  How  close  they  are!"  She  swept  the  range  in 
contemplative  joy;  then  her  eyes  dropped  to  paddocks, 
outlined  by  whitewashed  fences,  but  naturally  adorned 
within  with  huge  live  oaks.  The  spreading  trees  made 
shelter  for  all  seasons.  "Happy  horses!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  I  am  not  surprised  they  won  the  chariot 
races." 

The  rancher's  wife  looked  pleased.  "My  husband  is 
very  proud  of  his  stock,"  she  answered;  "and  here  he 
is." 

Cole  met  them,  tall  and  sun  browned. 


100  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

Without  further  pleasantry  the  party  plunged  into 
business.  The  little  woman  who  had  brought  the 
strangers  thither  realized  an  impending  sacrifice.  To 
part  from  any  one  of  a  noted  "four  "  was  hardly  to  be 
borne.  Then  she  remembered  that  Hawley  needed 
money;  that  lithe,  slender  "Delia"  and  her  running 
mate  were  not  to  be  sold.  When  a  purchase  price  be 
came  definite  she  smiled,  although  she  felt  like  crying. 
The  trade  assumed  reality ;  and  Ned  Hartley,  emerging 
from  sulks,  became  interested.  But  his  good  nature 
did  not  last,  for  soon  he  understood  that  Isabel  Doan 
was  about  to  buy  thoroughbred  horses  for  the  enjoy 
ment  of  another  man.  The  boy  was  mad  with  jealousy. 
He  was  sorry  that  he  had  urged  the  trip  to  the  foot 
hills.  Then  all  at  once  he  felt  superior,  very  like  a 
martyr,  in  view  of  all  that  he  suffered  and  proposed  to 
suffer  for  years  to  come.  Meantime  Cole  put  his 
horses  through  telling  paces.  No  points  of  the  beauti 
ful  pair  were  overlooked.  Mrs.  Doan  acknowledged 
her  wish  to  close  the  bargain,  but  the  rancher  evinced 
no  haste.  Finally  it  was  agreed  that  the  span  should 
go  to  town  for  a  week.  A  friend  of  Cole's  would  take 
care  of  them,  while  Mrs.  Doan  might  drive  each  day, 
with  the  privilege  of  returning  them.  In  case  the 
trade  went  through,  a  permanent  coachman  and  a 
groom  would  be  duly  recommended.  Isabel's  appoint 
ments  from  her  own  stable  had  recently  arrived  and 
now  she  could  hardly  wait  to  try  the  thoroughbreds  in 
different  styles  of  vehicles. 

"I  shall  accept  your  kind  offer,"  she  declared,  smil- 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  101 

ing.  "And  you  will  remember  the  saddle  horses?  I 
wish  for  two  beauties,  as  soon  as  possible."  She  was 
radiant,  thinking  first  of  Philip,  of  all  that  she  was 
making  ready  for  his  new  life  —  a  life  which  must  be 
perfect.  "Automobiles  shall  never  make  me  give  up 
the  joy  of  owning  horses!"  she  declared. 

Ned  Hartley  bit  his  lip  and  turned  away.  Down  in 
the  valley  he  saw  emerald  growth  flashing  in  sunshine. 
Spreading  acres  of  orange  orchard,  trees  always  dressed 
in  green  swept  onward  from  cleansed  mountains  and 
reviving  foothills,  to  a  distant  line  of  blue  —  the  ocean. 
The  landscape  was  glorious,  but  the  boy  felt  bitter 
and  would  not  regard  it.  He  joined  the  rancher's  wife 
with  pretext  of  renewed  interest  in  her  favorite.  Mrs. 
Cole  was  feeding  "Delia"  sugar  as  Hartley  approached. 
"We  call  her  our  baby,"  she  explained.  "I  never  dare 
meet  her  without  offering  sugar;  I  always  carry  a  few 
lumps  with  me."  To-day  the  high-spirited  animal 
stood  eating  from  the  hand  of  her  mistress,  so  gentle 
that  Ned  could  hardly  reconcile  her  present  range  with 
that  of  the  track. 

"Will  she  run  in  the  chariot  races  the  first  of  Jan 
uary?"  he  asked,  not  caring,  yet  wishing  to  appear  at 
ease. 

Mrs.  Cole  shook  her  dark  head.  "I  think  not,"  she 
answered.  "My  husband  hardly  expects  to  drive  this 
year.  Next  season,  with  two  young  horses  trained  for 
running  with  Delia  and  her  mate,  he  will  try  again. 
Last  New  Year's  there  was  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about 
prize  money,  in  spite  of  the  evident  dishonorable  driving 


102  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

of  a  certain  man  who  fouled  my  husband's  chariot. 
Oh,  but  it  was  exciting! " 

Ned  begged  for  the  story.  The  rancher's  wife  went 
on. 

"Hawley  had  virtually  won  the  race;  had  taken  the 
pole  from  his  opponent  on  the  first  dash,  just  beyond 
the  judge's  stand;  he  was  holding  his  advantage  with 
out  difficulty,  when  beyond  the  second  turn  his  right 
wheel  was  deliberately  knocked  off.  Of  course  the  big 
race  of  the  day  was  ruined.  The  management  of  the 
tournament  has  done  everything  to  induce  Hawley 
to  run  his  four  this  season,  but  he  has  refused."  Her 
cheeks  flushed  with  the  thought  of  her  husband's 
humiliation. 

"Will  the  man  who  fouled  the  chariot  be  permitted 
to  drive  again?"  Hartley  asked,  with  interest  in  foot 
hill  scandal. 

Mrs.  Cole  looked  proudly  away  to  the  sun-browned 
man  approaching.  "Please  do  not  speak  of  last 
year's  race,"  she  pleaded.  "I  dare  not  let  Hawley 
know  how  I  distrust  the  neighbor  who  fouled  his 
chariot.  But  of  course  nothing  was  proved.  It  was 
but  the  word  of  one  man  against  another,  for  the  trouble 
took  place  too  far  from  the  judges'  stand  to  be  exactly 
defined.  With  some  it  passed  as  an  accident.  Then 
you  know  it  was  all  so  quick  —  the  thundering  by  of 
the  chariots  —  the  crash!"  She  clasped  her. hands  as 
Cole  came  nearer,  then  smiled  at  Mrs.  Doan,  who 
seemed  a  vision  of  happiness. 

Terms  had  been  agreed  upon  and  the  horses  were  to 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  103 

be  taken  to  town  at  once.  But  Mrs.  Hartley  had  grown 
impatient.  Not  wishing  to  make  the  lady  late  for 
luncheon,  Isabel  brought  her  own  affair  to  an  abrupt 
close.  "  I  am  sure  to  keep  them !  I  love  the  beautiful 
creatures  already,"  she  declared,  as  the  machine  shot 
away. 

The  little  woman  of  the  foothills  did  not  return  in  the 
car. 

"If  the  horses  must  go  I  am  glad  that  she  is  to  own 
them!"  she  cried,  when  her  husband  named  the  price. 
"Do  you  suppose  she  will  marry  the  young  man?  " 

Cole  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "Can't  say  for 
sure;  but  if  sulks  are  any  indication,  should  say  the 
boy  was  down  on  his  luck.  I  think  there  must  be 
another  one;  and  by  George!  he  ought  to  be  presi 
dent,  or  at  least  a  senator,  to  splice  with  such  a  woman." 

"I'm  not  a  bit  jealous,"  his  wife  answered.  "I 
think  just  as  you  do.  I  think  she's  the  most  gracious 
being  I  ever  met." 

"She's  a  prize  package,  all  right,"  Cole  said.  "And 
she  has  a  mind  of  her  own.  The  way  she  settled  on  the 
horses  in  less  than  twenty  minutes  shows  that  she's 
used  to  money.  Most  women  would  have  taken  three 
weeks  to  decide,  coming  back  to  haggle  at  least  a  dozen 
times."  He  cast  his  arm  around  his  wife's  trim  waist, 
urging  her  gently  down  the  road.  "  I'm  as  hungry  as  a 
wolf,"  he  confessed.  "Let's  get  something  to  eat; 
then  we'll  drive  the  span  to  Pasadena  and  price  pianos. 
We'll  have  a  corker!  One  that  plays  itself." 

She  cried  out  joyously.     After  all,  she  might  have 


104  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

something,  too,  like  the  favored  woman  who  could 
look,  then  choose  at  will.  Isabel  spinning  away  from 
the  foothills  was  still  happy  with  thoughts  of  the 
morning's  transaction.  Very  soon  her  stable  would  be 
ready  for  use.  The  span,  saddle  horses,  a  pony  for 
Reginald  were  all  in  her  mind.  And  she  must  have  a 
touring  car  and  an  electric  runabout  besides.  The 
house  was  already  equipped  with  servants,  including  a 
first-class  celestial  cook,  who  achieved  culinary  mys 
teries  with  smiles  and  good  nature.  Madame  had 
arrived  to  stay,  and  when  the  English  nurse  displaced 
Maggie  life  might  move  along  with  the  spirit  of  Arcady. 
Then  he  would  come !  Philip,  her  once  forbidden  lover. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WEEKS  later  washouts  on  the  desert  demoralized 
all  overland  trains,  and  Isabel  waited  im 
patiently  for  the  belated  "Limited."  Then 
at  seven  in  the  evening  she  heard  Philip  Barry's  voice 
over  the  telephone.  In  an  hour  he  promised  to  be  with 
her.  During  the  morning  she  had  wandered  about 
the  garden,  trying  in  vain  to  picture  the  meeting  with 
the  man  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  nearly  a  year.  By 
afternoon  she  was  in  a  fever  of  suspense .  Throughout  the 
house  she  had  arranged  flowers,  with  her  own  hands  had 
cut  great  bunches  of  roses  for  the  living-room .  A  few  can 
dles  were  already  lighted,  while  blazing  logs  made  home 
like  cheer.  Isabel  stood  before  the  fire,  waiting.  She 
could  not  sit  on  a  chair,  with  the  clock  in  the  hall  tick 
ing  away  loud  seconds.  To-night  she  wore  soft  white, 
with  pearls.  Her  lover  would  be  pleased  to  see  her  out 
of  black.  She  wished  his  first  moment  to  be  full  of  joy. 
"Ma  belle  angele!"  madame  cried  again  and  again. 
French  ecstacy  continued  until  Isabel  begged  for  no 
more  compliments.  She  kissed  the  old  brown  cheeks, 
then  with  sudden  impulse  fled  above  to  her  sleeping 
boy.  Reaction  had  come  at  the  end  of  a  long,  long 
day.  The  felicitous  moment  she  had  fancied  was  sud 
denly  uncertain.  Something  she  dared  not  define 
frightened  her.  All  at  once  Reginald's  soft  breathing 
seemed  reproachful. 

105 


106  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"Dear  little  son,"  she  whispered,  "mother  loves  you 
none  the  less,  and  he  —  will  love  you,  too."  She  put 
her  bare  arm  about  the  boy's  warm  body  and  kissed 
his  cheek.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  hardly 
knew  whether  she  felt  glad  or  sad.  "  Good  night,  little 
son;  Father  Barry  is  coming  —  'Father  Barry,'  who 
loves  us  both."  Something  told  her  to  hope;  and  the 
clock  in  the  hall  was  striking  eight.  All  that  had  hap 
pened  —  all  which  was  yet  to  happen  —  seemed  like  a 
dream.  She  had  waited  so  anxiously,  heard  so  often 
through  the  long  day  far-away  trains  whistling  through 
the  valley.  To-night  she  scarce  believed  her  summons 
when  it  came.  But  the  maid  had  opened  the  outside 
door,  and  Isabel  heard  it  shut.  A  man's  voice  spoke 
her  name;  Philip  Barry  was  below.  At  the  landing 
of  the  staircase  she  reached  weakly  for  a  card,  dropped 
it,  then  went  slowly  down. 

Philip  waiting  in  the  bright,  rich  room  saw  her 
coming.  He  stood  unconscious  of  his  lately  changed 
appearance,  his  evening  clothes.  A  London  tailor 
had  assured  him  that  he  was  now  properly  dressed  for 
the  way  of  the  world,  and  at  last  his  "priest's  garb" 
was  forgotten.  His  worshipful  face,  slightly  thin, 
expressed  only  joy  as  he  ran  forward.  But  something 
was  wrong  with  Isabel.  Something  seemed  to  be  lost 
from  the  lover  imploring  at  her  side;  and  she  shrank, 
holding  him  aloof  for  judgment. 

"What  is  it? "  he  cried.  "Am  I  not  welcome? "  He 
scanned  her  face  with  passionate  longing.  "Do  you 
regret  —  regret  letting  me  come?" 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  107 

"No,  no,"  she  faltered.  " Only  wait !  wait  until  I  get 
used  to  you." 

He  took  her  at  her  word  and  moved  away.  Hunger 
tried  his  soul.  But  he  made  a  braver  lover  than  he 
had  been  a  priest. 

"What  did  you  expect?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Father  Barry!"  She  was  crying. 

He  gathered  her  close. 

"  Be  patient,"  she  begged.  "The  train  was  so  late  — 
so  long,  long  coming  —  and  —  and  you  see  I  must  get 
used  to  your  vest  not  being  fastened  in  the  back." 

He  smiled  pitifully.  "Will  you  ever  forget?  Ever  be 
able  to  go  beyond  those  mistaken  years?  Can  you  not 
go  back  to  the  time  when  we  first  knew  each  other?" 

"  Yes,  we  will  both  go  back.  I  will  forget !  I  promise 
you.  But  tell  me — "  she  was  dazzling  in  her  ex 
citement  —  "tell  me  if  you  are  sure!  Have  you  never 
been  sorry  for  what  I  made  you  do?  You  might  have 
gone  on,  might  have  overcome  things  which  seemed 
beyond  your  power.  It  was  because  I  came  that  night 
in  the  midst  of  your  trouble,  when  you  were  not  strong 
enough  to  drive  me  from  you.  If  I  had  stayed 
away?"  She  put  the  situation  plainly,  waiting  for  his 
answer  as  a  soul  on  trial.  She  was  jealous  now,  even  of 
a  possible,  passing  regret.  "If  I  had  stayed  away?"  she 
repeated. 

"I  should  have  left  the  priesthood,"  he  told  her 
simply.  "I  had  found  out  —  knew  certainly  that 
I  could  not  go  on,  even  before  I  saw  you.  Your 
coming  to  me  when  my  mother  went  but  gave 


108  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

me  hope,  brought  rescue.  Before  God  I  am  now 
honest!" 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  All  that  she  had 
withheld  was  waiting.  Love  blazed  in  her  starry  eyes , 
on  her  wonderful  lips.  Every  doubt  had  gone  with 
Philip's  last  words.  Everything  seemed  clear  — 
straightened  out.  Hours  sped  as  moments.  There 
was  so  much  to  talk  about,  so  much  to  explain  away. 
Each  one  went  back  to  the  beginning  and  to  a  time 
forbidden  even  in  memory  to  an  honorable  wife,  to  a 
priest.  Intermediate  existence  was  soon  wiped  out. 
Then  Isabel  thought  of  her  boy,  now  Philip's  boy  as 
well.  They  would  bring  the  child  up  jointly.  She  was 
glad,  very  glad.  "And  you  will  love  him  always?" 
she  implored.  "  He  has  not  forgotten  you ;  kisses  your 
picture  every  day.  You  shall  help  me  with  his  educa 
tion.  I  am  so  anxious  not  to  make  mistakes.  You 
know  Reggie's  warm,  live  temperament?  You  will 
advise  me?" 

"I  was  not  wise  about  my  own  career,  but  I  will 
do  my  best  for  the  boy,"  Philip  humbly  promised. 

Isabel  saw  for  the  first  time  how  much  he  had  suffered. 
He  looked  older,  haggard,  despite  his  happiness.  But 
his  face  had  assumed  grave  sweetness.  The  old  assur 
ance  of  a  once  popular  priest  was  gone.  Dependence 
upon  love  would  give  him  courage  to  begin  over.  The 
fullness  of  Isabel's  rich  nature  swept  outward  to  his 
need.  "We  shall  be  happy,  I  feel  it,  I  feel  it!"  she 
whispered  joyously. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ISABEL  awoke,  fully  conscious  of  the  day  just 
dawning.  From  her  bed  in  the  half -open  sleeping 
porch  she  peered  into  a  roseate  east.  With  her 
whole  heart  she  went  out  to  meet  the  sun,  slowly 
lifting  from  a  rampart  of  dark  mountains.  This  was 
Isabel's  wedding  day.  At  high  noon  she  was  to  be 
married  to  Philip  Barry.  She  rested  on  her  elbow, 
waiting  for  the  transcendent  moment.  She  was  a  "sun 
worshiper"  for  the  time,  and  not  a  cloud  subdued  the 
oncoming  spectacle.  As  Isabel  watched,  the  sable 
range  took  on  softest  blue,  while  snow-crowned  peaks 
rose  dazzling  in  the  distance.  Over  the  world  the  sun 
poured  light.  And  this  was  her  wedding  day.  It  was 
still  too  early  for  a  bath,  too  soon  to  begin  her  simple 
bridal  toilet,  and  she  fell  back  on  the  pillow.  The  white 
broadcloth  gown  and  coat  with  feather-trimmed  hat 
were  ready,  and  the  night  before  Philip  had  brought  a 
bouquet  of  dewy-eyed  forget-me-nots.  She  had  chosen 
the  flowers  in  preference  to  all  others.  There  was  very 
little  to  do,  no  more  than  for  an  afternoon  call.  She 
smiled  over  enjoined  simplicity,  glad  that  neither 
bridesmaids  nor  guests  should  claim  thoughts  which 
might  all  belong  to  Philip.  During  the  past  two  months 
in  which  she  had  spent  a  part  of  each  day  with  her  lover, 
she  had  grown  confident;  they  were  both  happy. 
Isabel  no  longer  feared  for  the  man  beginning  his  fresh 

109 


110  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

career.  For  his  book  —  at  last  finished  —  had  been 
sent  to  an  Eastern  publisher.  Philip  had  not  heard 
definitely,  but  there  was  reason  to  believe  that  the 
house  in  question  would  be  glad  to  bring  out  a  finely 
illustrated  work  on  cathedrals  which  might  readily 
appeal  to  a  cultured  class  of  readers.  Already  Isabel 
felt  elate  over  her  lover's  beginning.  The  field  of 
letters  seemed  more  choice,  more  set  apart,  since 
Philip  had  decided  to  compete  for  honors.  In  imagi 
nation  she  saw  her  future  husband's  prolific  volumes. 
How  proudly  she  would  dust  the  dark  green  row 
marked  "Barry."  She  remembered  that  the  name  was 
preempted  by  a  master  Scotch  novelist,  and  decided 
that  "Philip  Barry"  should  appear  in  full  on  the  backs 
of  the  new  author's  uniform  edition.  She  had  read 
only  parts  of  her  lover's  work,  but  it  had  been  exciting 
to  handle  a  real  manuscript,  one  which  must  go  forth 
to  win!  Philip  alone  understood  the  uncertain  odds 
against  disappointment.  In  a  fight  for  fresh  life  he 
felt  no  desire  for  anything  but  honest  work.  The 
book  had  started  upon  a  journey  East  a  month  before, 
and  now  each  day  Isabel  watched  her  lover's  face  for 
news  of  its  unqualified  acceptance.  The  collection  of 
exquisite  cathedral  views  —  actual  paintings  —  done 
in  Paris  and  submitted  by  a  noted  artist,  would  doubt 
less  enhance  the  value  of  the  work,  yet  it  was,  after  all, 
Philip's  part  which  timed  the  woman's  heart  to  fever 
ish  interest.  And  to-day  was  her  wedding  day.  From 
now  on  the  book  and  its  author  were  both  hers.  She 
stirred  lightly  in  bed,  again  looking  through  the  open 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  111 

flaps  of  her  canvas  room.  A  wonderful  world  was  at 
last  awake.  Every  bird  evoked  gladness,  and  Isabel 
too  was  glad.  Then  suddenly  the  boy  slipped  from  his 
cot  to  snuggle  within  her  arms.  Enchantment  of  sleep 
lurked  around  his  dewy  eyes,  and  night  had  brushed 
his  rounded  cheeks  with  cool,  fresh  bloom.  He  kissed 
his  mother  again  and  again.  "You've  got  most  a 
bushel !"  he  cried.  "Now  I  is  going  to  love  you."  He 
was  speaking  more  plainly  each  day,  gradually  ceasing  to 
be  a  baby.  "I  like  to  stay  with  mother  dear — in  this 
nice  bed,"  he  said,  contentedly.  His  arms  held  tighter. 
The  mother's  heart  felt  chill;  she  seemed  to  be  turning 
the  boy  away.  The  child's  words  hurt  her  as  she  had 
never  dreamed  they  could.  She  began  to  speak  of  a 
pony  about  to  arrive,  which  she  had  purposely  with 
held  against  a  trying  time  to  come.  "To-day  is  the 
day  for  the  pony ! "  she  announced  bravely.  "  Mother's 
boy  is  to  go  out  in  his  new  cart  with  madame,  is  to  drive 
like  a  man  all  afternoon." 

"But  I  want  mother  dear  to  come  too,"  the  child 
insisted. 

"Mother  dear  will  come  another  day;  to-day  she  is 

obliged  to  go  to  church,  and  then "  her  voice 

failed.  She  had  given  her  boy  no  idea  of  the  change 
actually  at  hand,  had  weakly  depended  on  accident 
and  his  love  for  Philip.  How  now  could  she  make  the 
little  fellow  understand?  She  began  again.  "To-day 
mother  must  go  to  church,  and " 

"Will  Philip  dear  go  too?"  the  boy  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel,  glad  of  an  opening  wedge. 


112  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"And  will  the  little  bell  ring?" 

Isabel  despaired.  Would  Reginald  never  forget? 
The  Catholic  services  which  he  had  once  witnessed 
were  yet  vivid,  and  despite  effort  to  dissociate  Barry 
with  a  priest's  part,  the  child  was  not  well  pleased  with 
the  conventional  garb  of  his  adored  friend.  Recently 
he  had  innocently  inquired  for  the  "bu-ti-ful  hat" 
formerly  worn  before  the  altar.  The  boy's  regret  was 
so  genuine  that  Philip  felt  his  pale  cheeks  deepen. 
The  mother  had  tactfully  explained  that  "Father 
Barry  "  of  old  no  longer  preached  in  a  church,  and  that 
now  "Philip  dear"  had  come  to  stay.  The  little  boy, 
without  understanding,  adopted  the  change,  and 
"Philip  dear"  had  soon  become  both  his  playfellow 
and  his  teacher. 

This  morning  Isabel  tried  in  vain  to  pass  over  the 
hard  part  of  a  day  that  after  all  could  not  be  happy 
until  she  had  settled  an  important  matter. 

"Sweetheart,"  she  implored,  then  flushed.  "Pre 
cious  boy,  listen.  Don't  ask  any  more  questions  and 
mother  will  tell  you  all  about  the  pony."  Reginald 
placed  his  small  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"I'm  doing  to  keep  stiller,"  he  promised. 

"Very  well,"  said  Isabel,  pressing  him  to  her  heart. 
"The  pony  is  sure  to  come  right  after  luncheon. 
Mother  may  be  away,  but  madame  and  Carolyn  will 
both  be  here.  Reggie  must  be  very  good  and  drive 
like  a  man  all  afternoon  in  his  cart.  Perhaps  when 
madame  has  gone  for  a  ride  Carolyn  will  take  her  place 
and  stop  for  little  Elizabeth.  Would  not  that  be  fine? 


THE   HIGHER   COURT  113 

"Great!"  said  Reginald;  then  added,  "I  suppose 
she'll  have  to  bring  every  one  of  her  dolls." 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  well,  don't  you  see,  so  many  dolls  would  take 
so  much  room?  Then  Elizabeth  says  I've  got  to  be  her 
husband." 

"Why  not?"  said  his  mother,  laughing. 

"Because —  because  I  just  want  to  be  your  husband." 
He  cuddled  closer.  Isabel  wept  miserably  in  his  curls. 

"  Don't,  oh,  don't ! "  she  pleaded.  She  smothered  the 
boy  with  kisses  until  he  cried  out  for  release.  Then  she 
sat  up  in  bed  with  the  child  in  her  arms.  "Reginald, 
darling,  you  must  listen.  Mother  is  going  to  be 
married  to  Philip  dear,  to-day,  at  the  church."  She 
hurried  on  before  the  astonished  boy  could  speak. 
"After  mother  is  married  to  Philip  dear,  Reggie  will 
have  a  kind  father  to  love  him,  to  take  care  of  him 
always." 

"Will  he  be  'Father  Barry'  again?"  the  boy  inquired 
eagerly. 

"No,  no,"  she  hastened  to  explain,  "just  father  — 
Reggie's  dear  father." 

"I  think  it  will  be  nice,"  the  boy  acknowledged.  He 
was  still  for  a  long  time,  with  his  cheek  against  his 
mother's.  Isabel  had  not  intended  taking  the  child  to 
church,  but  suddenly  she  changed  her  mind. 

"Would  Reggie  like  to  come?  Like  to  see  mother 
married  to  Philip  dear?"  The  questions  fell  gently, 
but  the  boy  sprang  up,  shouting. 

"May  I?"  he  cried,  with  true  desire  to  remember  his 


114  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

manners.  "Oh,  may  I?  May  I?  Mother  darling  — 
goody!  goody!  goody!" 

"I  think  you  may,"  she  answered. 

He  kept  repeating,  "Goody!  goody!"  Then  all  at 
once  he  grew  sober.  Something  still  troubled  him. 
"Will  Philip  dear  be  your  father,  too?  "  he  demanded. 

"No  darling,  not  my  father,  only  my  husband." 

He  waited  a  moment,  evidently  sifting  the  whole 
matter.  His  full  baby  lips  trembled.  "Will  Philip 
dear  be  your  husband  all  the  time?"  he  asked.  His 
mother  nodded.  "Then  I  suppose  Elizabeth  will  make 
me  be  her  husband."  He  heaved  a  little  sigh  which 
was  masculine  resignation  personified.  "Well,  I  don't 
care!"  he  exclaimed  valiantly,  "for  you  see,  mother 
dear,  I'm  going  to  have  a  father  and  a  pony,  too. 
Goody!  goody!  goody!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EVERYTHING  was  at  last  arranged,  and  Carolyn 
dressed  the  boy  for  his  mother's  wedding.  The 
little  fellow  looked  proud  and  sober  in  his  best 
white  suit,  with  a  tiny  bunch  of  Isabel's  forget-me-nots 
for  a  bridal  favor.  He  sat  very  still  and  grown  up  all 
the  way  to  the  church,  built  after  an  English  model 
and  picturesquely  hidden  among  green  hills.  The 
beautiful  chapel  made  a  complete  surprise  when  the 
carriage  stopped  on  the  country  road.  Madame  took 
Reginald's  tiny  gloved  hand  and  led  him  forward,  while 
Isabel  moved  slowly  after  them.  As  all  three  entered 
the  church,  bells  began  to  sound,  and  a  man  came 
quickly  forward  to  say  that  an  Episcopal  clergyman  and 
Philip  Barry  were  both  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  chan 
cel.  Madame  guided  her  charge  to  a  stall  used  by  choir 
boys  now  absent.  Here  the  old  French  woman  and 
the  boy  stood,  expectant.  Isabel  came  on  alone, 
vaguely  conscious  of  her  way;  then  suddenly  she  felt 
protected  —  loved,  for  Philip  had  reached  her  side. 
The  clergyman  entered  the  chancel.  The  man  and 
woman  to  be  joined  in  wedlock  heard  him  begin  the 
service.  His  words  fell  distinctly,  and  soon  Isabel 
and  Philip  listened  to  the  solemn  charge  administered 
before  marriage.  "That  if  either  of  you  know  any 
impediment  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully  joined  together 
in  matrimony,  ye  do  now  confess  it,"  rang  over  their 

115 


116  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

heads,  into  their  souls,  with  momentary,  questioning 
force.  But  the  pause  enjoined  by  the  Church  ended, 
and  no  voice  had  accused  the  apostate  priest.  The 
clergyman  went  on.  Glad  that  the  stern  proviso  was 
passed,  Isabel  faintly  smiled,  then  glanced  at  Philip. 
He  was  pale.  Undaunted,  she  put  her  hand  in  his 
and  followed  his  deep  responses  with  a  clear  voice.  It 
seemed  natural  that  he  should  remember  the 
bar  to  their  earlier  happiness.  Isabel  moved  slowly  to 
the  altar.  By  the  side  of  the  man  she  trusted  she  felt 
no  fear.  The  sunlight  of  human  love,  the  influence  of 
home,  a  chance  for  intellectual  freedom, —  all  these 
should  make  Philip  forget  a  miserable,  restless  year. 
And  at  last  the  two  were  kneeling.  Prayers  and  the 
benediction  had  made  them  one.  The  first  test  was 
over.  Soon  they  were  signing  the  parish  register  and 
could  now  leave  the  sacristy.  The  boy  and  madame 
were  waiting.  Again  the  bells  sounded.  Philip  led 
the  way  to  the  carriage,  and  a  moment  later  all  were 
driving  off  together.  Along  the  wayside  early  poppies 
lifted  golden  chalices  to  nuptial  health,  while  a  meadow 
lark  extolled  the  day.  All  about,  buzzing  insects  piped 
joy.  Isabel  was  glad  that  she  had  selected  the  tiny 
country  chapel  for  her  marriage. 

And  the  drive  home  was  a  pleasant  one.  Restraint 
lifted  as  the  boy  prattled  and  madame  overflowed  in 
French.  Isabel  and  Philip  gave  out  to  each  other  with 
out  fear  or  confusion.  Then  came  the  gay  arrival, 
with  servants  waiting,  and  the  boy's  pony  and  cart  in 
readiness  for  a  time  postponed.  But  the  mother  no 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  117 

longer  dreaded  temporary  parting,  for  now  she  was 
sure  of  her  little  son's  will  power.  Since  the  con 
fidence  of  early  morning  her  heart  had  felt  free. 
Throughout  luncheon  she  planned  for  the  boy's  amuse 
ment  during  a  month  set  apart  for  the  honeymoon. 
There  was  much  to  be  said  about  letters  and  surprises 
which  were  to  arrive  each  day.  Then  when  "mother 
dear"  came  back  Reginald  must  drive  her  out  into 
the  country.  Later  the  advent  of  kites  would  afford 
opportunity  for  an  indulgent  new  father.  The  child 
was  altogether  satisfied.  Isabel  found  no  difficulty  in 
slipping  above  for  a  change  she  had  almost  feared  to 
make.  When  she  came  down  dressed  for  traveling 
her  son  was  so  happy  with  his  pony  and  cart  that  the 
equipage  marking  a  bride's  departure  seemed  to  be 
purely  incidental  to  the  main  interest  of  the  afternoon. 
With  quick  embraces,  a  farewell  hand  wave,  Isabel 
and  Philip  were  gone.  The  old  slipper,  flung  by  ma- 
dame,  hit  the  carriage  and  fell  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XX 

T  last!"  said  Philip;  and  his  wife  responded 
with  a  happy  smile.  The  afternoon  trip  to 
St.  Barnabas  had  begun.  The  two  were 
sitting  in  the  Pullman,  at  liberty  to  forget  everything  in 
the  world  but  their  wedding  journey.  As  yet  it  was 
too  soon  to  regard  the  future;  the  present  was  all 
satisfying.  Isabel  began  to  speak  of  their  marriage 
ceremony,  as  most  brides  are  apt  to  do.  "How  simple 
and  easy  it  all  was,"  she  declared.  "I  shall  always 
love  that  darling  chapel  among  the  hills.  Did  you  feel 
the  spring  coming  through  the  open  windows?  And 
did  you  hear  the  meadow  lark  on  our  way  back?  Oh,  I 
loved  it  all." 

Her  husband  smiled  at  her  natural  joy.  Then  peer 
ing  into  Philip's  face  Isabel  saw  again  that  his  cheeks 
were  thin.  If  anything  he  was  more  distinguished 
looking,  yet  already  she  feared  for  his  health.  He  had 
been  working  too  hard,  and  the  next  month  must  do 
wonders  for  the  man  she  loved.  "At  St.  Barnabas  we 
shall  live  out  of  doors  every  moment  of  the  day,"  she 
declared.  "I  can  hardly  wait  to  show  you  that  won 
derful  country.  It  will  be  perfect  to  go  about  in  the 
saddle;  how  glad  I  am  that  we  sent  the  horses  on 
ahead  and  in  full  time." 

"You  are  a  fairy  wife  instead  of  a  fairy  godmother," 
said  Philip. 

118 


THETHIGHER  COURT  119 

"Nonsense,"  she  answered.  "lam  absolutely  self 
ish.  I  love  the  saddle  far  better  than  my  dinner,  and 
my  only  fear  is  that  I  may  tire  you  out." 

"No  danger;  I'm  going  to  astonish  you.  Besides, 
you  have  given  me  the  easiest  horse." 

She  denied  the  charge.  "One  is  as  fine  a  mount  as 
the  other.  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful  to  our 
friend  Cole.  And  isn't  it  nice  that  he  is  to  take  care  of 
the  horses  during  our  stay  at  the  hotel?  " 

"Pretty  nice  for  him,"  said  Philip. 

"And  for  us,  too,"  she  persisted.  "I  really  did  not 
wish  to  leave  madame  and  Reginald  without  a  coach 
man.  Of  course  I  could  have  let  Tom  come,  but  he  is 
altogether  too  fond  of  a  good  time.  Parker  threat 
ens  to  find  another  groom  every  week.  Besides, 
she  hesitated,  then  laughed,  "besides,  I  wanted  Cole 
and  his  little  wife  to  have  a  treat.  They  will  both 
enjoy  getting  away  from  the  foothills." 

"I  called  you  a  good  fairy,  now  I  am  sure  of  it," 
said  her  husband.  She  smiled. 

"Of  what  use  is  an  income  if  we  may  not  enjoy  it?" 

"Absolutely  good  for  nothing,"  he  answered. 

"And  it's  almost  selfishness  to  do  little  favors  that 
in  reality  cost  only  the  thought.  Some  day  we  must 
do  something  big  —  found  an  art  institute,  perhaps 
on  this  very  coast."  She  was  thinking  of  his  lost 
cathedral.  "Then  I  should  love  to  help  talented  young 
girls  with  no  way  of  reaching  'head  waters.'"  He 
looked  at  her  proudly.  "There  are  so  many  things 
needed  —  so  many  appeals  to  choose  from,  that  we  will 


120  THE  HIGHER   COURT 

surely  find  the  right  place  for  a  little  money."  Philip 
remembered  the  check  which  she  had  sent  him  over  a 
year  ago. 

Now  her  desire  to  make  the  whole  world  glad  was  part 
of  her  new  happiness.  But  soon  they  talked  of  other 
matters,  or  else  looked  out  through  the  wide  window 
at  charming,  changing  landscape.  All  afternoon  the 
train  climbed  the  rugged  coast  range,  often  boring  its 
way  through  a  tunneled  mountain.  At  five  o'clock 
they  had  tea  on  a  small  table,  when  a  wonderful  sunset 
touched  every  hill  and  spur  of  their  upland  road. 
Evening  came  all  too  soon.  Stars  began  to  peep, 
and  suddenly  domestic  lights  twinkled  across  a  popu 
lous  valley.  Then,  near  by,  the  great  Pacific  beat 
eternal  measure  on  silver  sands.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
when  the  train  stopped  in  St.  Barnabas ,  at  the  rear  of  a 
noted  caravansary  flaming  electrical  welcome.  Philip 
had  already  engaged  rooms.  Resigning  his  checks  and 
suit  cases  to  a  waiting  porter,  he  led  Isabel  down  the 
footpath  through  a  garden  of  palms  and  flowers.  The 
way  seemed  fairyland,  while  on  either  hand  the  breath 
of  blossoms  filled  the  night. 

"My  wife  —  my  precious  wife,"  he  said  softly.  At 
their  feet  stretches  of  shasta  daisies  lay  as  snow. 
Isabel  pressed  her  husband's  arm. 

"Could  any  place  be  more  perfect  for  our  honey 
moon?"  she  asked. 

Lapping  of  waves  reached  the  garden.  The  newly 
wed  pair  did  not  hasten,  yet  all  too  soon  the  flower- 
bordered  path  ended  beneath  lighted  arches.  The  two 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  121 

went  slowly  forward,  while  just  how  to  pass  uncon 
cernedly  from  the  clerk's  desk  to  the  elevator,  made 
them  really  seem  like  "  bride  and  groom."  For  the  first 
time  each  secretly  acknowledged  happy,  bewildered 
self -consciousness.  The  blazing  corridor  filled  with 
beautifully  gowned  women  and  men  in  evening  dress, 
groups  of  older  people  back  from  an  early  dinner, 
strains  of  music  calling  late  diners  to  waiting  tables, 
gave  instant  local  color  to  both  time  and  place.  Philip 
scrawling  personal  decoration  on  the  hotel  daybook 
grew  careful  and  wrote  the  new  appendage  to  his  name 
with  telltale  neatness.  However,  it  was  soon  over. 
Neither  looking  to  right  nor  left  the  couple  bolted  past 
groups  of  curious  women,  were  all  but  safe  in  the  pro 
tecting  elevator,  when  a  familiar  voice  spoke  Isabel's 
name.  Gay  Lewis,  alert  for  sensation,  faced  the  grating 
of  the  rising  lift.  "Delighted  to  see  you!"  she  called 
after  them.  And  Philip  Barry's  wife  answered  with 
the  smile  prescribed  under  all  conditions  for  a  bride. 

As  they  rose  above,  Philip  looked  questioningly  at 
Isabel.  "An  old  school  friend  of  mine,"  she  told  him. 
He  made  a  wry  face. 

"Have  you  many  more  of  them  about  the  hotel?" 
She  laughed  softly. 

"I  cannot  say.  One  never  knows  whom  one  may 
meet  in  California." 

They  were  leaving  the  elevator,  following  a  boy 
with  keys  to  their  rooms.  "I  hope  we  shall  not  be 
surprised  on  every  side,"  the  man  persisted.  Isabel 
caught  his  hand. 


122  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"Never  mind,"  she  whispered,  "I'll  take  care  of  you. 
But  you  must  be  nice  to  Gay  Lewis.  We  are  simply 
destined  to  meet  the  world  over,  and  Gay  has  a  way 
of  saying  things."  The  bell  boy  was  beyond  hearing 
distance.  "Not  that  she  has  anything  to  say  about  us 
of  slightest  interest  to  strangers,"  she  hastened  to  add. 
Philip  saw  the  flush  on  her  cheeks.  Was  she  already 
beginning  to  dread  unavoidable  notoriety?  The 
thought  sobered  him.  Now  he  understood.  But 
Isabel  should  not  suffer,  if  being  polite  to  every  one 
in  Christendom  could  help  matters. 

"I  shall  bend  to  'the  higher  criticism,'  do  my  best  to 
impress  Miss  Lewis,"  he  declared  with  assumed  gayety. 

Then  Isabel  exclaimed  as  the  door  to  their  spacious 
sitting-room  flew  open.  The  place  was  a  bower  of 
roses.  " Did  you  tell  them  to  do  it?  "  she  asked. 

Philip  forgot  a  passing  shadow  and  smiled  an  affirma 
tive  answer. 

"It  is  lovely!  the  loveliest  room  I  was  ever  in,"  she 
declared.  "How  dear  of  you."  Philip  stopped  by  the 
window,  enjoying  his  wife's  girlish  joy.  She  sank  her 
face  into  every  separate  bunch  of  flowers.  "Oh,  these 
dear,  dear  pink  ones!"  she  cried. 

American  Beauties  nodded  above  her  head,  and  she 
stood  on  a  footstool  to  inhale  their  fragrance.  On  a 
round  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth  was  a  huge 
bowl  of  "bride  roses,"  fitting  emblem  for  the  day. 
Philip's  surprise  had  been  perfect.  The  delicate  fore 
thought  which  had  ordered  her  bower,  which  stipu 
lated  for  the  little  dinner  to  be  served  in  the  sitting-room, 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  123 

away  from  curious  eyes,  touched  her  beyond  words. 
Her  husband  was  indeed  a  lover !  She  ran  to  him  with 
outstretched  arms.  As  never  before  she  knew  the 
depth  of  a  long-denied  moment.  And  later,  when  she 
laid  aside  her  coat  and  hat,  to  sit  at  the  first  little  din 
ner  alone, — but  for  the  deferential  waiter  coming  in  and 
going  out, — she  kept  thinking  of  all  that  they  had  in 
store,  of  their  happiness  to  come. 

Philip  was  never  as  gay,  never  so  like  the  boy  of 
years  back  —  the  boy  who  had  loved  the  girl.  Both 
were  beginning  over  again  and  time  between  had 
taught  them  the  price  of  joy. 

"On  this  night  we  toast  each  other,"  said  Philip, 
lifting  his  glass.  "There  is  just  'one  cold  bottle'  for 
our  'little  hot  bird'!  I  drink  to  my  wife!" 

His  eyes  glowed.  Isabel  touched  his  glass  with  her 
own.  "To  the  dearest  husband  in  the  whole  big 
world!"  she  responded,  then  kissed  him.  He  held  her 
away  from  him,  feasting  on  her  beauty.  But  she 
begged  for  freedom,  and  took  her  place  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table.  "We  must  behave,"  she  cautioned. 
"He's  coming!  I  hear  him  down  the  hall." 

"  I  will  be  circumspect,"  Philip  promised.  "  But  I'm 
losing  my  appetite.  I  don't  feel  glad  of  salad  and  the 
rest.  Let's  fire  him  before  the  coffee;  I  want  to  sip 
mine  with  my  wife  on  my  knee." 

"For  shame!"  she  chided,  as  the  waiter  tapped  the 
door,  with  a  loaded  tray.  "Do  seem  to  be  hungry.  If 
we  send  things  back  untouched  we  shall  be  the  talk  of 
the  hotel  kitchen."  Laughter  was  a  natural  part  of  the 


124  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

little  dinner.  "It  is  just  like  playing  party,"  she  de 
clared,  when  the  man  again  disappeared. 

"Please  pass  the  sugar,"  Philip  begged.  "Won't  you 
kiss  me  again?" 

"Not  now,"  she  refused.  "We  must  remember  that 
Reginald  is  learning  table  manners ;  if  we  act  too  badly 
through  our  honeymoon,  he  may  notice  shortcomings 
when  we  get  home.  Besides,  he's  coming  —  the  waiter's 
coming.  Be  dignified." 

"Will  coffee  ever  begin?"  Philip  complained. 

"Very  soon."     They  both  laughed. 

"Which  shall  I  use,  a  fork  or  a  spoon  for  my  frozen 
pudding?" 

"Your  fork  —  by  all  means;  now  please  talk  sen 
sibly;  he's  just  outside." 

Philip  thought  of  the  king  who  dined  without  ser 
vants,  and  wished  that  he  too  had  built  a  table  for  the 
occasion,  one  with  a  dummy  lift  in  its  center,  to  bring 
up  food  and  to  carry  away  the  dishes. 

Isabel  watched  with  playful  eyes  until  the  last  of 
his  pudding  was  gone.  Then  she  dismissed  the  waiter. 
Black  coffee  and  a  first  cigar  for  the  benedict  state 
were  both  enjoyed  without  interruption.  The  evening 
lengthened.  Philip  saw  his  wife  flit  about  the  rooms 
with  joyous  air  of  proprietorship.  Reginald's  picture 
stood  on  the  table  beside  the  "bride  roses." 

Something  told  him  to  go  below  on  a  natural  pretext, 
for  their  trunks  were  late.  When  he  went  out  Isabel 
did  not  stir.  Everything  was  so  wonderful,  so  much 
more  wonderful  than  she  had  fancied.  But  at  last  she 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  125 

began  to  move  about,  smiling.  She  hung  her  traveling 
coat  in  the  closet  and  brushed  her  hat.  Her  suit  case 
was  unlocked  and  unstrapped,  and  she  drew  forth 
things  which  were  needed.  She  loosened  her  hair, 
plaiting  it  as  usual.  Two  golden  braids  hung  down  her 
back.  Then  she  slipped  into  a  soft  robe  of  silk  and 
lace,  and  stood  by  the  window  facing  the  sea,  waiting 
for  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PHILIP  and  Isabel  spent  much  time  in  the  saddle. 
Heavy  rains  of  the  season  had  suspended,  leav 
ing  the  country  fresh  and  fragrant.  Heather- 
toned  effects  on  mountains  round  about,  the  sky  so 
azure  that  the  depths  of  blue  seemed  immeasurable, 
drew  the  newly  wedded  pair  each  morning.  They 
always  found  Cole  waiting  with  their  horses.  It  soon 
grew  to  be  an  event  for  less  favored  guests  of  the  hotel 
to  watch  the  couple  mount,  then  gallop  off.  Isabel  had 
no  suspicion  of  the  incessant  comment  created  by  her 
slightest  public  movement.  With  Philip  it  was  differ 
ent.  But  for  his  wife's  complete  satisfaction  he  would 
have  chosen  a  retreat  on  the  foothills  above  the  sea. 
He  knew  of  such  a  place,  and  longed  to  leave  the  crowded 
hotel,  where  all  were  talking  behind  his  back,  whisper 
ing  of  his  abolished  priesthood,  impugning  his  motives, 
testing  his  action  by  opposing  scales  of  ignorant  en 
thusiasm  and  bitter  prejudice.  For  he  constantly 
heard  unguarded  remarks,  felt  the  prick  of  gossip  as 
he  passed  from  one  place  to  another.  Isabel  was  all 
unconscious  of  her  husband's  sensitive  state.  For 
Philip  had  kept  his  word,  treating  Gay  Lewis,  and  in 
fact  every  one  whom  he  met,  with  due  consideration. 
Miss  Lewis  hung  on  his  slightest  word,  while  at  the 
same  time  she  established  Isabel  with  an  elect  coterie 
of  young  wives  whose  husbands  played  tennis  or  polo 

126 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  127 

at  the  hotel  country  club.  Afternoons  were  often 
passed  in  watching  sports  in  the  open.  Sometimes 
Philip  and  Isabel  cantered  into  the  club  grounds  in  time 
for  a  simple  luncheon;  frequently  they  joined  new 
acquaintances  at  table.  Then  again  they  sat  apart  by 
themselves,  relaxing  after  a  long  ride  through  the 
valley  or  on  the  wonderful  mountain  road  as  yet 
undesecrated  by  automobiles.  For  at  St.  Barnabas 
the  ubiquitous  motor  car  is  somewhat  restrained.  The 
famous  mountain  drive  is  still  a  tradition  and  sacred 
to  the  family  carriage  and  "happy  tots"  on  ponies. 
Philip  and  Isabel  never  grew  tired  of  walking  their 
horses  around  curves,  which  made  the  winding  way  a 
panorama  of  sky,  mountains,  valley,  and  sea.  "There 
is  nothing  more  lovely  in  the  world!"  Isabel  would  ex 
claim  each  time  they  left  the  upland  for  the  return 
sweep  past  beautiful  villas  and  gardens.  Then  came  a 
gallop  by  the  ocean.  But  on  other  days  they  took  a 
different  direction,  going  past  "The  Mission,"  riding, 
as  it  were,  beyond  the  pale  of  sacred  history  into 
territory  where  heretics  alone  might  disregard  the  mur 
mured  prayers  of  monks.  It  was  strange  how  the  work 
of  the  old  fathers  dominated  the  landscape.  At  points 
the  mission  held  the  skyline,  and  on  every  side  its  twin 
towers  proclaimed  the  beauty  of  simple  strength.  To 
the  man  cast  out  from  Catholic  favor  there  was  inani 
mate  reproach  in  every  elemental  line  of  the  early 
church.  Against  the  blue  a  perspective  of  pure  Spanish 
architecture  fascinated  him.  His  thoughts  went  out  — 
against  his  will  —  to  the  cathedral  he  had  longed  to 


128  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

perpetuate.  Romish  emotion,  fostered  at  birth,  im 
bibed  with  his  pious  mother's  milk,  rose  unbidden; — a 
challenge  to  his  love  for  Isabel.  His  wife  always  seemed 
to  conquer,  and  he  stifled  the  dread  that  threatened 
as  he  turned  his  back  on  the  mission.  Then  suddenly 
it  loomed  once  more.  Again  he  felt  its  compelling 
powers,  its  binding  simplicity.  Meanwhile,  no  sus 
picion  of  Philip's  struggle  entered  Isabel's  mind,  for 
her  own  keen  delight  in  the  church  was  serene.  The 
mission  to  her  was  an  esthetic  opportunity,  a  relic 
that  a  comparatively  new  world  ought  to  be  proud  of. 
She  was  a  purist  in  art,  and  after  a  second  visit  to  St. 
Barnabas  she  loved  every  line  of  the  historic  mission. 
Yet  she  had  not  asked  her  husband  to  go  inside  of  a 
now  forbidden  place.  She  longed  to  enjoy  once  more 
the  marvelous  view  from  the  twin  towers,  but  as  doing 
so  would  involve  Philip,  she  had  given  up  the  idea. 
Their  honeymoon  was  already  perfect.  Each  day  she 
felt  happier,  more  certain  that  she  had  been  wise  to 
marry  Philip.  Once  she  marveled  at  a  young  priest's 
power;  now  the  man  —  her  husband  —  held  her  with 
the  same  irresistible  fascination.  For  Philip  was  a 
wonderful  lover,  both  implied  and  manifest.  And 
besides,  after  a  fortnight's  trial,  Isabel  pronounced 
him  the  most  charming  comrade.  Also,  there  were 
moments  when  the  two  felt  willing  for  a  silent  interval , 
when  neither  one  spoke  or  demanded  attention.  It 
was  at  such  times  only  that  Philip  unconsciously 
brooded  over  the  ecclesiastical  tragedy  of  his  life. 
But  Isabel  blindly  rejoiced  in  her  husband's  balance, 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  129 

while  each  gay  canter  past  the  mission  brought  fresh 
assurance  of  his  good  sense.  Then  suddenly  one 
morning  he  asked  her  to  dismount  for  an  interior  view 
of  the  old  church.  She  did  not  hesitate.  It  seemed 
manly,  natural,  that  he  should  be  strong  enough  to  put 
aside  personal  feeling,  should  be  able  to  enjoy  an  es 
thetic  opportunity  at  hand.  And  she  shrewdly  di 
vined  that  he  was  tired  of  denying  his  interest  in  the 
supreme  tourist  sight  of  the  locality.  By  going  through 
the  mission  his  noticeable  attitude  might  be  changed. 
She  had  no  appreciation  of  his  risk  from  the  Catholic 
standpoint.  As  she  walked  forward  by  his  side  she  felt 
neither  embarrassment  nor  fear.  After  all,  they  were 
both  strangers,  coming  with  thousands  of  others  who 
looked,  departed,  and  left  an  offering  of  money.  The 
gold  of  heretics  had  really  restored  the  mission.  The 
man  once  a  priest  led  his  wife  beneath  an  historic 
arch  of  the  long  gallery.  Here  the  two  stopped. 
Three  brown-cloaked  monks  sat  on  a  bench  enjoying 
the  sun. 

"We  should  like  to  go  through  the  mission,"  said 
Philip. 

The  oldest  "brother"  of  the  trio  arose.  "You  are 
welcome,"  he  answered  pleasantly. 

The  two  younger  monks  got  up  quickly,  passed 
before  the  visitors,  crossed  a  whitewashed  anteroom, 
unlocked  a  solid  door,  then  sprung  it  back  in  the  face 
of  on-coming  Isabel.  But  despite  the  haste  of  a  fleeing 
order  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sacred  garden 
beyond,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  her  disqualified  judg- 


130  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

ment  to  regard  herself  as  a  natural  temptation  for 
carnal  thoughts.  She  simply  smiled  at  the  rude  oppor 
tunity  enjoined  by  holiness.  As  she  followed  the 
"brother"  in  charge  of  the  regulation  tour  for  stran 
gers,  she  kept  wondering  about  the  tall,  handsome  monk 
who  had  used  a  pass  key  on  the  spring  lock  of  the 
oaken  door. 

He  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  manhood,  and  Isabel 
could  still  see  his  fine  head,  his  modeled  jaw  and  chin, 
the  strong  mouth;  above  all,  the  swinging  freedom  of 
his  limbs  underneath  his  rough  brown  habit.  She 
regretted  the  unattractive  personality  of  the  attending 
brother,  yet  at  the  same  time  she  tried  —  as  she 
always  tried  —  to  repay  a  debt  with  simple  gratitude. 
It  was  soon  plain  that  the  austere  monk  regarded  her 
with  favor. 

As  they  went  from  one  small  whitewashed  room  to 
another,  pausing  to  examine  some  rude  relic  of  early 
mission  days,  Isabel  led  in  the  conversation.  "It  is 
all  very  interesting,"  she  declared.  "And  the  church 
has  been  so  consistently  restored,"  she  went  on.  "I 
do  not  wonder  that  you  are  proud  of  the  only  mission 
in  California  which  has  not  been  treated  to  some  shock 
ing  innovation.  Even  the  dear  old  church  at  San 
Gabriel  has  taken  on  a  modern  redwood  ceiling  utterly 
devoid  of  art's  religion." 

The  brother's  thin  lips  drew  apart  in  a  quizzical 
smile.  "You  must  become  a  Catholic  and  help  us  to 
preserve  the  crumbling  architecture  of  the  good 
fathers,"  he  suggested. 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  131 

"  I  should  love  to  help  the  work  along,"  she  answered. 
They  had  finished  with  the  small,  chilly,  almost  anti- 
septically  treated  rooms,  open  to  strangers,  and  were 
now  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  old  stairway  leading 
above  to  the  towers.  On  account  of  previous  experi 
ence  Isabel  regarded  the  high  stone  steps  with  trepida 
tion.  The  brother,  not  intending  to  mount,  bade  them 
take  their  time,  then  meet  him  again  outside  in  the 
sunshine.  Philip  offered  to  help  his  wife  with  an  initial 
lift,  but  she  refused  assistance,  declaring  that  to  be 
game  when  mounting  historic  steps  was  the  only  way. 
"I  may  not  be  able  to  move  to-morrow,  but  to-day  I 
shall  not  think  of  future  punishment,"  she  gayly  jested. 
Philip  went  behind  to  guard  her  as  she  took  the  peni 
tential  climb.  And  at  last  both  were  resting  in  the 
ancient  belfry,  close  to  the  old  bells  from  Spain.  Below 
the  sacred  garden  lay  plain  to  their  view.  Philip 
pictured  the  first  sinful  man  peering  into  forbidden 
Eden.  Then  he  remembered  that  Adam  still  had  Eve. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

PHILIP  stood  looking  down,  with  his  hand  lightly 
resting  on  Isabel's  shoulder.  Beyond  the  foun 
tain,  before  the  timeworn  cloister,  sat  an  aged 
brother  surrounded  by  monks.  It  was  plain  that 
the  old  brother  was  ill,  perhaps  nearing  the  end  of  a 
chosen  life  on  earth,  for  he  was  speaking  to  the  young 
monks,  who  seemed  to  hang  on  every  word,  hovering 
around  his  chair  with  awkward,  masculine  devotion. 
In  all  probability  these  same  vigorous  men  would 
carry  the  old  brother  on  his  bier  to  the  little  cemetery, 
where  he  might  displace  the  whitened  bones  of  some 
monk  long  dead  and  forgotten. 

As  Philip  gazed  down  on  the  scene  below,  trans 
lating  as  well  he  might  the  end  of  justified  means  to 
Catholic  grace,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  For  some 
unaccountable  reason  the  dying  monk  suggested  his 
mother.  The  reproach  which  she  had  never  given  him 
in  life  now  seemed  to  ascend  from  the  old  garden  — 
from  the  invalid  brother  leaning  back  on  pillows. 
Philip  turned  away,  and  Isabel  saw  that  he  was  hurt. 
Instantly  her  hand  held  his.  "Let  us  go,"  she  im 
plored.  But  he  smiled  back  refusal. 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  my  mother,"  he  confessed. 
"You  must  not  forget  that  she  was  a  Catholic,  consis 
tent  and  happy  to  the  end  of  her  days.  I  could  not 
help  associating  her  in  my  mind  with  the  good  brother 

132 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  133 

below  us.  I  have  been  told  that  an  old  monk  has  never 
been  known  to  pass  away  with  regret;  only  the  young 
ones,  sometimes,  feel  restless  in  the  cloister." 

He  had  not  spoken  in  this  manner  before.  Isabel 
covertly  scanned  his  countenance.  His  cheeks  held  a 
slight  hollow,  almost  imperceptible,  except  when  his 
face  was  turned  in  a  certain  way.  Standing  with  his 
back  to  the  light,  in  the  arch  of  the  belfry,  his  eyes 
seemed  too  bright  for  normal  condition.  Isabel  re 
membered  the  strain  of  his  past  year. 

"Let  us  not  climb  above  onto  the  roof,"  she  pleaded. 
Still  he  would  not  forego  the  broader  view,  and  helped 
her  to  cross  from  one  tower  to  the  other.  As  they 
halted,  spellbound,  to  breathe  mountain  air,  to  drink 
salt  breeze,  Isabel  again  looked  at  her  husband.  He 
was  smiling  in  sensuous  pleasure.  It  came  to  her 
joyously  that  time  alone  could  heal  his  wounded  spirit. 
It  seemed  manly  that  he  should  be  able  to  delight  in 
his  present  environment  without  prejudice;  that  he 
should  face  phases  of  Catholic  power  without  pain.  It 
were  preposterous  to  try  to  wipe  out  the  realm  of  Romish 
influence;  for  to  do  that  meant  to  give  up  "old  world" 
cathedrals  and  universal  art,  inspired  by  popes  and 
cardinals.  Yes,  Philip  was  wise  to  tread  his  new  way 
freely  as  a  free  man. 

But  when  they  had  descended  from  the  tower  Isabel 
stood  undecided.  "Are  you  sure  that  you  wish  to 
enter  the  church?"  she  asked. 

Her  husband  hesitated,  with  eyes  on  the  stone  floor. 
The  flashing  recollection  of  an  awful  interdict  held  him ; 


134  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

then  he  looked  up.  "I  am  no  longer  a  Catholic,"  he 
acknowledged  coldly.  "I  have  the  right  to  see  the 
interior  of  the  mission  church,  like  any  other  American 
citizen.  Come,  let  us  hasten." 

Isabel  followed,  dimly  conscious  of  his  defiant  mood. 
The  brother,  waiting  without,  led  them  across  ancient 
flagstones  to  timeworn  steps  of  generous  dimension. 
In  fancy  Philip  saw  flocking,  dark-faced  Indians  of 
early  days  mounting  to  service.  The  work  of  the 
unselfish  fathers  accused  him  even  before  he  entered 
the  fine  old  edifice;  but  he  went  on,  with  intent  to 
stifle  all  but  esthetic  feeling.  He  felt  relieved  when  his 
wife  assumed  a  questioning  attitude  that  was  cordially 
appreciated  by  the  brother  in  charge. 

Here  in  the  old  church,  by  the  side  of  a  brown-habited 
monk,  Isabel  shone  as  usual.  It  became  clear  to  Philip 
that  his  wife  and  not  himself  attracted  their  guide.  He 
walked  on,  listening  to  the  brother's  story  of  early 
mission  life  and  art,  with  no  outward  sign  of  inculcated 
knowledge.  At  every  curtained  confessional,  before 
Spanish  pictures  of  saints,  at  every  sacred  shrine,  he 
told  himself  defiantly  that  he  played  no  dishonorable 
part.  The  curious  temper  of  the  observer  condoned 
his  bold  action.  He  was  "a  stranger  within  the  gates." 
He  went  forward  to  the  foot  of  the  chancel  as  a  man  in  a 
dream.  That  less  than  two  years  back  he  might  have 
penetrated  with  full  right  beyond  to  the  flower-dressed 
altar  brought  him  a  momentary  pang,  but  he  stifled  it 
and  looked  at  Isabel.  Did  she  know  —  understand? 
Her  serene  face  expressed  no  undercurrent  of  emotion. 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  135 

The  reserve  force  of  splendid  womanhood  had  walled 
in  her  husband's  past  with  natural,  incidental,  imper 
sonal  interest  for  everything  at  hand.  Then,  as  they 
stood  on  listening  to  the  brother's  fervent  account  of 
work  done  by  early  mission  Indians,  notes  from  the 
organ  broke  the  strain,  while  presently  a  baritone 
voice  of  wonderful  quality  floated  below  from  the  choir 
loft.  Isabel  turned  in  surprise.  Even  at  the  far  end 
of  the  church  she  saw  clearly  the  two  young  monks  who 
had  gone  through  the  heavy  door  to  the  secret  garden. 
The  tall,  lithe-limbed  monk  was  the  singer;  his  cloister 
brother  accompanied  him  on  the  organ. 

"How  beautiful!"  she  exclaimed,  sitting  down  by 
Philip,  in  a  convenient  pew.  "They  are  practicing 
—  for  service?"  she  asked. 

The  brother  in  charge  nodded.  He  seemed  disap 
pointed  that  his  own  rhetorical  opportunity  should  be 
eclipsed  by  the  mere  song  of  a  youngster.  But  the 
charming  heretic  no  longer  listened  to  a  story  of  dark, 
slow-moving  converts.  Her  eyes  had  ceased  to  rest  on 
fantastic  colored  designs  carved  by  early  Indians  and 
now  transferred  to  the  new  wooden  ceiling  of  the  old 
church.  The  voice  in  the  choir  loft  held  her;  and  with 
a  woman's  will  she  chose  to  end  the  brother's  attentions. 
Besides,  Philip  seemed  worn  with  sacred  tradition. 

"We  have  enjoyed  everything  very  much!"  she  said 
with  enthusiasm.  "If  we  may  come  another  day  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  cemetery,  we  should  now  prefer  to 
listen  to  the  music."  She  smiled,  one  hand  extended. 
As  the  brother  hesitated  she  drew  a  goldpiece  from  he 


136  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

glove.  When  Philip  too  responded  with  natural 
impulse,  the  brown  monk  moved  away.  He  turned 
once  to  look  back,  then  went  on.  They  caught  the 
gleam  in  his  eyes.  After  all,  they  had  paid  in  full, 
were  not  intruders  in  the  mission  always  open  to  a 
curious  public. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PHILIP  and  lasbel  were  in  full  time  for  luncheon. 
The  wife  noticed  that  her  husband  ate  his  toast  and 
squab  with  appetite.     His  cheeks  were  flushed 
from  the  canter  back  to  the  hotel,  while  during  the  half 
hour  at  table  he  appeared  both  happy  and  talkative. 

"Shall  you  mind  if  I  go  off  this  afternoon  for  golf?" 
he  asked,  as  they  went  from  the  dining-room. 

Isabel's  face  expressed  satisfaction.  Her  husband 
had  hardly  left  her  side  since  their  arrival.  She  be 
lieved  in  casual  separation.  She  knew  instinctively 
that  Philip  must  feel  renewed  interest  in  his  own  sex,  to 
be  quite  the  man  he  had  been  before  his  trouble  of 
months  back. 

"Go,  by  all  means,"  she  encouraged,  as  they  went 
from  the  elevator  to  their  rooms.       "  Golf  must  be  your 
game ;  it  will  do  you  a  world  of  good  to  follow  the  links. ' ' 

"And  you  won't  miss  me?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  she  answered.  "Besides,  I  want  to 
expect  you  back.  I  wish  to  feel  the  pang  of  parting, 
so  that  I  may  know  how  very,  very  lonely  I  used  to  be." 
She  spoke  lightly,  but  he  knew  that  in  reality  she  did 
not  jest.  "And  the  man  —  your  opponent  in  golf?" 
she  asked. 

Philip  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "How  do  you  know 
that  I  am  not  going  to  tread  the  turf  with  a  fair  lady  ?  " 
he  teased. 

137 


138  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

"I  should  be  awfully  jealous,"  she  confessed.  He 
knew  that  she  spoke  the  truth.  It  came  over  him  at 
the  time  that  men  were  few  who  might  claim  such  love 
as  Isabel's.  In  her  starry  eyes  he  read  salvation,  felt 
the  depth  of  her  womanly  will.  Inadequate  power  to 
repay  his  debt  made  him  humble.  He  kissed  her  again, 
holding  her  close  with  adoring  tenderness.  Then  he 
told  her  that  he  was  about  to  play  golf  with  the  great 
publisher  whom  he  had  recently  met.  The  triumph 
on  her  lips  amused  him. 

"Build  no  air-castles!"  he  begged.  But  she  freed 
herself  from  his  arms  and  danced  like  a  child. 

"What  a  chance!"  she  cried.  "You  must  make  him 
your  friend.  I  saw  last  evening  that  he  was  immensely 
interested  in  you,  and  now  he  may  ask  you  to  write 
for  his  magazine."  Isabel's  estimate  of  her  husband's 
genius,  of  his  ability  to  rush  into  print  in  one  of  the 
foremost  monthly  publications  in  the  country,  was  fresh 
proof  of  her  blind  passion. 

"Don't  think  such  foolish  things,  dear  little  girl," 
Philip  commanded.  "The  road  to  solicited  manu 
scripts  is  a  long  way  off  —  as  yet.  I  shall  have  to  get 
my  stuff  back  many,  many  times  before  I  can  count  on 
an  indulgent  editor."  He  spoke  humbly,  yet  withal 
the  eternal  spark  of  hope  had  kindled  for  his  literary 
career. 

"Shall  you  tell  him  of  your  book  —  about  'The 
Spirit  of  the  Cathedral'?  " 

Philip  shook  his  head.  "That  might  frighten  him. 
He  would  think  that  I  had  an  ax  to  grind." 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  139 

"But  you  have  sent  your  manuscript  to  another 
publishing  house,"  she  persisted. 

"That  is  true,"  he  assented,  "but  until  I  hear  de 
finitely,  I  do  not  care  to  talk  of  my  forthcoming  book. 
Besides,  the  man  is  here  for  rest  and  change.  If  I 
am  able  to  make  him  my  friend  he  may  possibly  tell  me 
things.  Above  all,  I  must  not  bore  him  with  my  own 
uncertain  achievements."  He  laughed,  tugging  at  his 
golf  shoe.  "  But  you  shall  try  your  art  on  the  man  this 
evening;  I  have  promised  to  present  him." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  Isabel  answered.  "And  by 
reason  of  the  dance  to-night  the  bride  may  wear  white 
satin.  She  is  irresistible  in  la  robe  empire." 

Philip  faced  her.  "I  see  all  my  manuscripts  ac 
cepted  at  once,"  he  said  jestingly. 

"Of  course.  Now  run  along;  do  not  keep  our  great 
man  waiting.  I  shall  rest  for  an  hour,  then  write  to 
madame  and  Reginald." 

"And  you  are  really  able  for  a  ball,  after  the  high 
steps  of  the  mission  tower?" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  spoken  of  their 
morning's  experience.  Isabel  was  overjoyed  at  his 
light  reference  to  the  visit  to  the  old  church. 

"To  dance  will  limber  me,  beyond  doubt,"  she  de 
clared,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand.  She  watched  him 
pass  down  the  hall  to  the  elevator;  then  she  went 
back  to  her  sitting-room. 

At  last  she  felt  the  glad  sense  of  partnership.  Ambi 
tion  for  the  man  she  loved  threatened  to  become  more 
absorbing  than  all  else  in  her  life.  Suddenly  her  boy 


140  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

seemed  to  reproach  her.  On  the  table  his  lifelike 
portrait  begged  for  notice.  She  caught  up  the  silver 
frame. 

"Darling  little  son!"  she  murmured,  "mother  will 
soon  be  at  home  —  more  than  ever  your  playmate, 
your  companion."  She  put  the  picture  down  and  sat 
with  her  head  resting  between  her  hands.  Her  thoughts 
were  now  all  with  Reginald.  What  was  he  doing? 
Was  he  out  in  his  pony  cart?  Was  dainty  baby  Eliza 
beth  along,  giving  the  dolls  an  airing?  Then,  above 
all,  did  the  boy  miss  his  "mother  dear"?  She  drew  a 
crumpled  half  sheet  of  paper  from  an  envelope.  "  Bless 
his  dear  little  heart,"  she  again  murmured.  Reginald's 
zigzag  message,  together  with  round  spots  wonder 
fully  colored  to  represent  kisses,  drew  her  lips.  She 
responded  to  a  realistic  fancy,  smiling  above  her  son's 
confident  masterpiece.  Then  she  reread  a  letter  from 
madame.  All  were  moving  along,  and  the  child  was 
happy. 

Her  old  friend's  idiomatic  expression  kept  her  smiling 
to  the  end,  while  she  realized  anew  the  good  fortune 
which  had  brought  the  French  woman  to  California. 
In  future  Reginald  might  have  every  chance  with  his 
French.  The  mother  decided  to  make  luncheon, 
with  the  boy  at  table,  a  time  set  apart  for  French 
conversation.  Philip,  too,  spoke  the  foreign  tongue; 
and  again  Isabel  planned  for  Reginald's  liberal  educa 
tion.  And  she  meant  to  study  herself,  by  the  side  of  a 
talented  husband.  How  full  life  promised  to  become. 
But  with  every  consistent  hope  her  own  ambition  was 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  141 

subordinate  to  love.  To  love,  to  be  loved  by  Philip, 
by  Reginald,  by  friends,  constituted  the  little  world 
she  longed  to  conquer.  And  to-night,  she  wished  to 
shine  at  the  ball,  not  as  a  woman  evoking  admiration 
from  the  crowd,  but  as  Philip's  wife.  If  she  might 
help  to  bring  him  fresh  power  she  was  satisfied.  Nor 
did  Isabel  deny  her  own  evident  advantage.  She  was 
too  familiar  with  standards  of  beauty  not  to  be  glad  of 
a  rich  inheritance;  yet  in  all  her  life  she  had  never  been 
vain.  For  to  be  vain  is  to  be  selfish,  pinned  upon  a 
revolving,  personal  pivot.  Isabel  had  always  thought 
first  of  others.  To-day  her  mind  was  full  of  schemes 
for  Philip,  for  Reginald,  and  for  old  madame.  If 
Philip  agreed  she  wished  to  live  permanently  in  Cali 
fornia.  She  had  already  put  her  closed  house  in  the 
West  on  the  market.  The  city  which  had  once  been 
home  no  longer  claimed  her  interest.  And  Philip 
must  never  go  back  to  the  scene  of  his  past  humiliation. 
She  reached  for  a  traveling  portfolio  and  began  to 
write  to  Reginald.  Here  and  there  she  pasted  bright 
pictures  to  illustrate  a  little  story  which  would  be  sure 
to  delight  her  boy.  When  she  had  finished  she  dashed 
off  a  letter  in  French  to  madame;  then,  fearing  that 
Philip  might  be  late,  she  laid  out  his  dinner  clothes. 
She  was  not  in  need  of  companionship,  and  a  couch  close 
to  the  wide  window  facing  the  sea  lured  her.  She 
would  rest.  Waves  splashed  a  rhythm  of  contentment. 
Out  beyond  the  breakers  a  buoy  creaked  in  vain,  for 
her  nerves  were  as  sound  as  her  boy's.  She  did  not  mind 
the  incessant  grind.  She  was  happy  —  satisfied. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  Saturday  evening  hop,  which  so  often  was  a 
perfunctory  recurrence,  blossomed  into  an 
occasion,  when  a  score  of  United  States  naval 
officers  entered  the  hotel.  The  great  fleet  had  not 
then  made  the  gallant  dash  around  the  Horn;  but  for 
several  years  preceding  this  noted  achievement  stray 
battleships  had  touched  along  the  Western  coast.  The 
ship  in  question  bound  for  Manila  was  now  anchored 
over  night  outside  the  breakers  of  St.  Barnabas.  Cor 
ridors  of  the  hotel  palpitated  when  privileged  men  off 
the  man-of-war  burst  upon  the  scene.  In  less  than  a 
minute  maneuvers  in  the  ballroom  eclipsed  those  of 
the  outlying  battleship,  as  anxious  mammas  steered 
young  daughters  to  open  port.  Lines  drew  taut  and 
merciless  for  all  untouched  by  the  accolade  of  station, 
while  on  every  side  sat  groups  of  elderly  onlookers. 

Officers  in  immaculate  evening  dress,  ready  for 
change,  eager  to  dance  with  pretty  women,  moved 
easily  about,  and  soon  surcharged  conditions  were 
overcome  by  general  satisfaction. 

By  Isabel's  side  Gay  Lewis  shone  with  reflected 
prominence.  Nor  did  the  girl  deny  the  evident  truth 
when  flocking  ensigns  marked  her  for  second  choice. 

"You  are  a  dear!"  she  reiterated  after  each  oppor 
tunity  due  to  her  friend.  "I  have  not  had  a  chape- 
rone  for  a  long  time.  Now  I  see  my  blunder."  For 

142 


THE   HIGHER   COURT  143 

Philip  Barry's  wife  was  the  undoubted  toast  of  the 
navy  men. 

In  a  day  when  dancing  has  degenerated  into  pathetic 
uncertainty  the  advent  of  willing  ensigns  might  well 
be  put  down  as  something  new  and  exhilarating. 
Isabel  forgot  her  strenuous  climb  to  the  mission  roof. 
She  had  not  enjoyed  a  ball  for  full  five  years;  and  she 
was  like  a  girl  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  admirers. 
To-night  the  great  publisher  had  no  chance,  with 
epaulets  to  right  and  left.  But  the  afternoon  at  golf 
had  been  successful.  Philip  and  his  new  friend  stood 
together  on  the  outskirts,  each  duly  conscious  of  his 
own  inadequate  worth. 

"It  behooves  us  to  tread  modestly  —  we  fellows  who 
have  adopted  a  sober  career,"  the  editor  declared.  "I 
never  could  learn.  My  mother  kept  me  at  dancing 
school  until  I  had  tramped  the  toes  of  every  little  girl 
in  the  class,  then  one  day  she  gave  me  up."  He 
laughed  drolly,  while  his  eyes  took  in  the  swift,  uncon 
scious  movement  of  Mrs.  Barry  and  her  partner,  a  tall 
young  ensign. 

"We  are  not  in  China,  and  fortunately  I  may  speak 
to  you  of  your  wife,"  he  went  on.  "As  a  compara 
tively  new  acquaintance,  I  beg  to  congratulate  you. 
You  are  too  fortunate  in  a  world  where  many  are  not." 

Barry  stiffened.     The  other  sensed  misapprehension. 

"I  have  never  been  married,"  he  explained.  "lam 
denied  the  pleasure  of  admiring  my  own  wife.  Those 
days  at  dancing  school  took  away  all  possible  hope.  For 
years  I  could  hardly  shake  hands  with  a  girl  of  my  own 


144  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

age;  then  you  see  I  got  wedded  to  single  life  —  spent 
my  days  passing  upon  loves  of  fictitious  heroes  and 
heroines." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Philip,  deeply  interested. 

"Sometimes  I  think  I  should  have  made  a  much 
better  judge  of  literature  if  I  had  only  asked  a  woman 
to  share  my  criticisms  and  bear  my  remorse  when  I 
turn  down  very  readable  things.  You  see  a  man  who 
has  not  married  can  never  be  quite  as  sure  as  one  who 
knows  the  taste  of  both  good  and  evil.  'The  woman 
which  thou  gavest  me'  may  do  a  lot  of  mischief,  but 
when  the  crash  comes  she  generally  compensates.  For 
my  part  I  doubt  if  Adam  would  have  gone  back  into 
the  garden  with  any  interest  whatever  after  Eve  found 
'pastures  new'  outside." 

"And  you  believe  that  a  married  man  is  capable  of 
better  work  than  a  single  one?"  Philip  was  growing 
curious. 

"Undoubtedly,"  the  editor  answered.  "I  have  in 
my  mind  a  certain  writer  of  note,  one  who  but  for  per 
sistent  bachelorhood  might  have  risen  to  highest  rank 
in  fiction.  As  it  is,  he  has  always  fallen  short  of  the 
real  emotion.  A  certain  class  reading  his  books  fail  to 
detect  mere  description  in  supposedly  passionate  epi 
sodes,  but  to  those  of  deeper  consciousness  and  ex 
perience  he  has  counterfeit  feeling.  This  particular 
novelist  works  from  matrimonial  patterns  —  traces  all 
that  he  draws.  I  am  older  than  yourself,  and  you  will 
pardon  me  for  saying  it,  but  your  wife  should  help  you 
to  achieve  almost  anything." 


THE  HIGHElTCOURT  145 

Philip  flushed.  The  pride  of  possession  came  over 
him  afresh  when  Isabel  whirled  past,  with  a  smile  which 
he  knew  could  never  be  untrue.  Above  her  radiance, 
beauty,  he  felt  her  exquisite  womanhood.  To-night 
he  believed  that  she  would  lead  him  to  "pastures  new — 
outside."  Throughout  the  evening  Philip  stayed  by 
the  editor,  gradually  making  his  way  into  the  man's 
confidence,  while  adhering  to  a  first  determination 
which  withheld  the  fact  of  his  own  unprinted  book. 
Then  at  midnight,  Isabel,  Miss  Lewis,  and  three  young 
officers  captured  the  onlookers  and  forced  them  away 
to  supper. 

It  was  a  gay  little  party.  The  round  table  at  which 
all  sat  became  an  excuse  for  a  full  hour's  enjoyment; 
and  as  Isabel  had  promised,  she  did  her  best  to  make  the 
editor,  who  might  possibly  help  Philip,  her  own  friend 
also.  The  undertaking  was  not  difficult.  If  dancing 
school  trials  had  left  an  eternal  scar  on  the  bachelor's 
unclaimed  heart  to-night  he  showed  no  unwillingness 
to  devote  himself  to  Isabel.  Philip  was  amused.  Then 
he  remembered  his  wife's  unfailing  charm.  He  had 
never  seen  her  unsympathetic  or  rude.  When  she 
really  cared  to  please,  she  could  not  be  soon  forgotten 
by  any  one  selected  for  her  favor.  And  to-night,  as 
usual,  the  elderly  publisher  and  the  young  ensigns  from 
the  ship  all  went  under  to  a  woman's  gracious  way. 
Nor  was  Miss  Lewis  annoyed. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  afterward,  "no  one  ever  at 
tempts  to  eclipse  Isabel;  for  don't  you  see  she  would 
not  care  in  the  least,  and  that  being  the  case,  no  other 


146  THE  HIGHER   COURT 

woman  would  be  foolish  enough  to  try  —  and  then  fail. 
And  Gay  was  at  her  best  during  supper.  Philip  had 
never  liked  her  as  well  as  when  the  party  broke  up. 
There  was,  after  all,  something  fine  and  straight 
forward  about  the  girl,  who  appeared  to  drift  with  the 
tide  of  hotel  pastimes.  Philip  told  himself  that  as  a 
priest  he  had  been  narrow  in  many  of  his  judgments. 
The  evening  had  stimulated  his  respect  for  the  world. 
His  emotional  nature  went  out  again  to  things  he  had 
once  given  up.  Isabel's  beauty  held  him  in  passionate 
bonds,  and  he  felt  incentive  for  new  work.  His  book, 
which  came  next  to  his  wife  —  for  no  one  writes  seri 
ously  without  the  sense  of  humanized  accomplishment 
—  suddenly  went  up  in  his  own  estimation.  The 
evening  with  a  real  publisher  had  stiffened  his  con 
fidence;  and  for  the  first  time  since  his  marriage  he 
merged  love  for  Isabel  with  the  success  of  "The  Spirit 
of  the  Cathedral."  But  his  personal  undercurrent 
passed  unnoticed.  To  his  wife  he  seemed  detached 
from  all  but  the  present.  As  she  drew  him  away  from 
the  shining  ballroom  she  exulted  to  herself.  Unusual 
and  lighter  opportunity  seemed  to  be  what  her  husband 
most  needed. 

The  battleship  hauled  anchor  at  dawn.  The  men 
had  already  started  for  the  tug  and  a  trip  across  the 
breakers.  The  hotel  was  despoiled  of  glory.  Corridors 
were  soon  dim  and  lonely.  To  Isabel  the  night  had 
proved  her  husband's  ease  with  a  life  comparatively 
new  and  untried.  She  felt  young,  contented,  ready  for 
all  which  might  come.  Not  a  fear  for  Philip  crossed 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  147 

her  mind  as  she  went  to  her  rooms.  She  had  been 
exhilarated  throughout  the  evening,  but  now  she  was 
glad  to  rest.  Philip  unfastened  her  gown,  halting  to 
kiss  her  bare  shoulders,  to  tell  her  about  their  friend, 
the  magazine  editor.  As  she  slipped  out  of  her  ball 
finery  she  was  like  a  girl  after  a  first  night  of  conquest. 
Later  he  listened  to  her  gentle,  regular  breathing  as  he 
lay  by  her  side.  It  seemed  yet  a  dream  that  she  was 
really  his  wife.  Events  of  the  past  began  to  fill  his 
mind.  Then  reaction,  which  so  often  came  with  excess 
of  feeling,  kept  him  awake  for  hours.  But  at  last  he 
dropped  away,  only  to  rouse  up  at  intervals.  The 
outgoing  tide  seemed  to  carry  him  to  the  anchored 
ship,  gleaming  beyond.  The  incessant,  yet  broken 
passion  of  the  sea  forbade  sleep.  With  every  tardy 
lap  of  waves  he  grew  more  restless;  and  dawn  broke. 
All  at  once,  a  desire  to  witness  the  departure  of  the 
man-of-war  drew  him  from  bed.  Isabel  slumbered  as  a 
child,  and  Philip  went  softly  to  the  window  and  looked 
out.  The  sea  rose  and  fell  an  arctic  green.  There  was 
no  mist,  and  he  could  see  the  great  ship  clearly.  A 
streamer  of  black  smoke  floated  across  the  morning 
sky;  already  there  were  signs  of  departure.  Philip 
dressed  quickly  and  quietly.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
Isabel  might  be  shocked  to  awaken  and  find  him  gone. 
He  smiled  as  he  slipped  into  the  sitting-room  to  indite 
a  line  "To  the  Sleeping  Beauty."  But  his  wife  did 
not  stir  when  he  pinned  the  note  to  his  own  empty 
pillow.  He  went  back  to  the  adjoining  apartment  for 
his  field  glasses;  then  out  of  the  door  through  quiet 


148  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

halls,  to  a  side  entrance  below,  where  he  found  an  open 
way. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

PHILIP  watched  the  maneuvers  of  the  battleship 
from  the  shore,  at  the  foot  of  the  hotel.  His 
glasses  were  strong,  and  he  could  make  out 
regular  disciplined  movements  of  men  on  board.  What 
a  life,  he  thought.  To  be  always  waiting  for  war,  ready 
for  action  in  any  part  of  the  world,  regardless  of  human 
personal  ties.  The  monster  breasting  waves  seemed 
as  horrible  as  it  was  majestic.  The  man  who  was  once 
a  priest  had  never  wished  to  be  a  soldier.  This  morning 
he  sensed  the  command  to  draw  anchor,  felt  the  signi 
ficance  of  carnage  for  the  sea,  saw  the  ship  move. 
Against  a  skyline,  clear  with  oncoming  day,  it  took 
unchallenged  sway.  The  man  followed  with  his 
glasses.  He  stood  fascinated  by  almost  imperceptible 
motion.  Against  morning  sky  a  black  streamer  rested, 
then  gradually  trailed  to  invisible  distance,  as  broadside 
perspective  dropped  away.  The  man-of-war  was  gone. 
But  Philip  still  stood  on  the  shore.  Early  day  had 
taken  possession  of  his  will.  He  seemed  rooted  to  the 
wet  sand  beneath  his  feet.  Was  Isabel  awake?  Had 
she  yet  missed  him?  He  looked  back  at  the  hotel, 
rising  above  lawn  and  palm  trees.  He  could  see  no 
signs  of  life,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  a  brisk  walk 
might  atone  for  his  restless  night.  The  fresh  air 
stimulated  him  as  he  went  forward.  Without  thought 
of  destination  he  left  the  ocean  for  the  esplanade,  the 

149 


150  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

esplanade  for  the  long  business  street  of  the  town.  As 
he  went  on  he  began  to  see  people  and  to  realize  for  the 
first  time  that  it  was  Sunday.  Many  were  going  to 
early  Mass,  and  he  was  not  among  them.  At  a  corner 
he  saw  a  modern  Catholic  church.  The  old  mission  now 
had  its  rival  in  the  new  brick  building.  Several  maids 
from  the  hotel  got  off  a  car  to  hurry  onward.  A  woman 
in  front  went  faster  as  she  neared  the  church,  but 
turned  half  round  and  looked  at  Philip.  He  felt  her 
insinuating  survey  as  he  strode  rapidly  away;  then  he 
recognized  Reginald  Doan's  former  nurse.  It  was  un 
doubtedly  Maggie;  and  she  knew  him  for  all  that  he 
had  once  been.  He  could  not  be  mistaken.  That 
Maggie  had  deceived  Isabel  and  followed  Mrs.  Grace  to 
St.  Barnabas  was  plain.  With  that  lady's  departure 
for  the  East,  the  girl  must  have  ceased  to  be  her  maid. 
Maggie's  surprise  seemed  evident;  and  at  best  the  en 
counter  was  disagreeable.  Philip  hurried  on  with  the 
sense  of  being  watched.  He  walked  past  gardens,  not 
seeing  flowers  freshened  by  night's  cool  touch  and 
morning's  breath.  Suddenly  he  was  cast  down,  de 
pressed  by  something  impalpable. 

But  he  went  on  and  on  in  absent-minded  mood, 
taking  no  note  of  locality,  not  realizing  his  dis 
tance  from  the  closely  settled  town.  He  followed 
the  track  of  a  car  line,  dimly  conscious  of  the 
way,  until,  without  warning  —  the  mission  faced 
him.  He  might  have  known!  Still  he  had  the 
habit  of  losing  himself  when  Isabel  was  not  his 
leader;  and  they  seldom  went  out  except  on  their  horses. 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  151 

Miserable,  angry,  he  stood  afar,  irresistibly  called  by 
sounding  bells. 

He  saw  men  and  women  go  up  the  wide  worn  steps 
to  early  Mass;  then  like  an  outcast  he  turned  away  to 
board  a  car  returning  to  the  hotel.  Isabel  would  be 
waiting,  wondering  what  had  become  of  him.  And  he 
would  not  tell  her,  would  never  let  her  know  of  his 
childish  trip.  The  mission  had  become  an  obsession. 
He  saw  it  in  his  dreams  and  heard  about  it  on  all  sides. 
Every  artist  painted  it;  and  carriage  drivers  on  the 
streets  urged  him  to  take  a  seat  for  the  inevitable 
trip.  Children  showed  him  their  post  cards  adorned 
with  a  picture  of  the  historic  church  or  else  some  scene 
taken  in  the  cloister  garden.  The  mission  was  getting 
onto  his  nerves.  He  was  almost  beginning  to  hate  it. 
He  would  never  see  it  again;  and  with  the  thought,  he 
looked  back  at  the  graceful  stretch  of  the  low,  sun- 
kissed  monastery,  following  on  like  a  little  brother  to 
the  close  protection  of  the  "old  fathers'"  abler  work. 
It  was  so  beautiful,  so  simple,  that  he  could  not  deny. 
His  knowledge  of  architecture,  his  sense  of  fitness,  kept 
his  thoughts  with  the  unselfish  monks  of  the  past.  He 
could  not  forget  when  from  boyhood  he  had  been  trained 
in  church  history.  He  had  always  been  best  in  his 
class.  And  how  his  dear  mother  would  have  loved 
the  old  church.  At  last  the  car  was  moving;  at  last 
he  might  get  away. 

His  back  was  to  the  mission  and  the  run  to  town 
would  not  take  long.  After  all  he  might  not  be  very 
late.  And  as  he  had  hoped,  he  found  the  hotel  still 


152  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

quiet.  Only  a  few  early  risers  were  down  for  breakfast 
when  he  went  to  the  dining-room  to  order  Isabel's 
tray  sent  up  to  her  room.  Then  he  took  the  elevator. 
He  entered  by  the  same  door  through  which  he  had 
departed,  walking  softly  to  his  wife's  bedside.  She 
seemed  not  to  have  stirred  during  his  absence;  but 
the  note  was  gone  from  the  pillow.  He  leaned  down 
and  kissed  her,  and  at  the  same  instant  half  bare  arms 
tightened  around  his  neck.  Then  she  laughed. 

"'Sleeping  Beauties'  never  wake  up  unless  they  are 
kissed,"  she  told  him.  He  doubled  his  charm  as  she 
raised  on  her  elbow. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  never  coming  back?"  he  asked. 
"I  took  a  long  walk  after  the  ship  got  away,  went 
farther  than  I  intended." 

"I  thought  so,"  she  said.  "Men  never  remember 
the  return  trip.  But  I  have  hardly  missed  you.  I 
read  my  love  letter,  then  went  right  to  sleep.  I  did  not 
wake  until  I  heard  the  telephone.  Of  course  I  answered 
it,  and  whom  do  you  suppose  was  speaking?" 

"Doubtless  one  of  your  numerous  admirers,"  her 
husband  gallantly  answered. 

"No.  This  time  it  was  your  admirer.  But  I  came 
in  for  honorable  mention.  I  am  so  flattered,  almost 
glad  that  you  were  not  here  to  respond  to  our  friend 
the  editor." 

Now  she  was  wide  awake.  The  soft  disarrangement 
of  night  still  hung  about  her  hair.  Her  eyes  sparkled 
as  the  morning.  She  sat  up,  leaning  forward. 

"He  has  invited  us  to  go  out  with  him  this  afternoon 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  153 

in  his  touring  car.  I  said  we  would  come.  You  are 
willing?" 

"  Of  course,"  Philip  answered,  smiling  at  her  eagerness. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tilton-Jones  and  Gay  Lewis  are 
asked;  we  are  to  start  about  three." 

Philip  puckered  his  brow.  "  Why  the  Tilton-Joneses 
—  I  wonder? "  Isabel  saw  that  he  did  not  care  for 
the  couple. 

"They  are  relatives  of  our  host,"  she  explained. 
"One  cannot  turn  down  cousins  in  California,  or  for 
that  matter,  acquaintances.  You  must  be  nice  to 
them,  for  last  night  both  expressed  the  wish  to  know 
you."  She  was  anxious  for  her  husband's  popularity 
with  strangers.  That  he  should  hold  his  new  place 
without  criticism  was  always  in  her  mind. 

Isabel  knew  the  world,  and  when  she  married  an 
apostate  priest  she  had  considered  its  way,  all  outside 
of  love.  She  had  even  prepared  herself  for  first, 
almost  inevitable  rebuff.  Time  would  show  where  she 
and  Philip  both  stood.  A  desirable  few,  who  obsti 
nately  disapproved,  should  not  annoy  her;  and  at 
last  they  too  might  forget.  To  her  surprise  she  had 
felt  no  condemnation.  A  mere  marriage  notice  passed 
from  paper  to  paper,  with  miraculous  decency.  Isabel 
read  no  highly  colored  version  of  either  her  own 
beauty  or  of  Philip's  sensational  conduct.  If  anything 
unpleasant  appeared  she  did  not  see  it.  This  morning 
as  she  sat  up  in  bed,  enjoying  the  breakfast  which  her 
husband  had  thoughtfully  ordered,  she  was  more  than 
thankful,  more  than  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A   ND  you  do  not  care  for  the  Tilton-Jones  com- 
_/\_     bination?"  she  asked. 

Philip  shook  his  head.  "I  fail  to  admire 
either  of  them,  although  I  least  of  any  one  should  cast  a 
presumptuous  stone.  Perhaps  I  am  unduly  prejudiced. 
I  have  known  several  hyphenated  Jones  people  before, 
and  for  some  reason  I  never  got  on  with  them.  You 
see  I  was  always  addressing  the  wife  as  plain  Mrs. 
Jones — perpetually  overlooking  the  lean-to  addi 
tion." 

Isabel's  laugh  rippled.  How  very  clever  her  husband 
was.  "  I  shall  keep  you  from  forgetting  this  afternoon," 
she  promised.  "I  am  so  glad  to  go  out  in  a  machine. 
Really  I  do  not  believe  I  could  sit  the  saddle  to-day. 
And  this  is  too  nice!"  she  declared,  as  she  poured  the 
coffee.  "Are  you  not  going  down?"  Then  she  ex 
tended  a  steaming  cup.  "Take  this,"  she  begged. 
"They  have  sent  plenty  for  two;  suppose  we  have 
breakfast  together." 

"But  there  is  only  one  cup." 

"What  matter,  when  we  have  a  full  pot  of  coffee. 
And  just  see  the  toast  and  rolls." 

Philip  sat  facing  his  wife,  amused  as  he  always  was 
when  he  had  only  to  obey. 

"You  drink  first,"  she  commanded. 

"Tell  me  when  to  stop;  I  might  take  all." 

154 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  155 

"  You  may.  I  never  really  enjoy  coffee  until  I  have 
finished." 

She  was  irresistible.  And  all  this  loveliness,  this  un 
consciousness,  was  now  but  for  his  own  eyes.  Isabel 
was  his  wife.  To-day  he  felt  that  he  had  sinned  only 
by  once  becoming  a  priest  bound  by  unnatural  vows. 

God  had  created  a  pair  in  the  beginning,  decreed  that 
man  should  not  live  without  sympathy,  without  love. 
He  was  thinking  of  couples  bound  as  prisoners. 
Everything  seemed  so  natural  for  Isabel  and  himself, 
except  when  he  did  not  sleep  or  went  back  too  far.  The 
white  satin  empire  gown  lay  extended  on  the  couch. 

Philip  pointed  drolly  across  the  room,  then  touched 
the  sleeve  of  Isabel's  dainty  night  robe.  "I  like  this 
gown  best;  you  seem  about  eighteen  months,  hardly 
old  enough  to  be  Reggie's  fond  mamma." 

"For  shame!"  she  cried.  Still  she  was  pleased. 
With  mention  of  her  boy  she  began  to  talk  of  the  little 
fellow,  to  wonder  what  he  was  doing  on  this  very 
Sunday  morning. 

The  breakfast  above  proved  to  be  a  happy  thought. 
Husband  and  wife  "took  turns"  from  the  single  cup; 
there  was  gayety  and  byplay. 

"We  have  not  left  a  crumb!"  said  Isabel.  "I  never 
ate  such  good  toast.  You  know  we  are  to  have  dinner 
at  one  —  the  regulation  hour  for  the  day;  we  shall 
subsist  until  then."  She  poured  the  last  drop  from 
the  coffee  pot.  "This  is  our  loving  cup.  Let  us 
drink  to  every  one  that  is  married  —  in  the  big 
world!" 


156  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

Philip  smiled.  "That  wouldn't  do,  too  many  miss 
the  whole  thing,"  he  answered. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  agreed.  She  had  almost  for 
gotten  the  time  when  life  had  not  been  full  and  satisfying. 
"Now it  is  all  so  wonderful — so  sure, "she added  softly. 

"But  of  course  honeymoons  have  got  to  be  silly  — 
real  silly  —  just  like  this  breakfast.  After  a  while 
we  shall  both  be  serious  enough,  with  your  literary 
work  and  Reg  growing  up." 

She  bounded  from  bed  to  her  dressing  room,  dropping 
Philip  a  courtesy  in  return  for  his  previous  jest.  "I 
will  come  forth  full  grown,"  she  promised.  "Your 
friend  the  editor  shall  never  suspect  that  I  still  love 
dolls." 

She  kept  her  word  and  after  dinner,  when  she  stood 
with  Philip  on  the  veranda  of  the  hotel,  she  had  ex 
changed  the  way  of  a  child  for  one  of  womanly  charm. 
The  day  was  glorious,  and  already  Gay  Lewis  and  the 
Tilton- Joneses  were  on  hand.  A  moment  later  the  host 
of  the  afternoon  led  his  party  to  the  waiting  car.  The 
three  ladies  occupied  the  tonneau,  while  Tilton-Jones 
and  Philip  faced  them.  The  New  York  publisher  sat 
in  front  with  the  chauffeur.  At  the  outset  Gay  Lewis 
announced  her  satisfaction.  "Nothing  could  be  as  fine 
as  this!"  she  declared.  "A  Pierce  Arrow  is  next  to 
flying.  Of  course,  for  some  time  to  come  I  shall  not 
be  permitted  to  shoot  upward,  but  if  it  were  not  for 
mother  I  should  accept  my  first  invitation." 

"Could  you  really  dare  to  board  an  airship?"  Mrs. 
Tilton-Jones  put  in. 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  157 

"Certainly,"  said  Gay.  "I  dare  say  I  was  born 
only  for  sport;  I  love  it  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  I  never  think  of  danger  when  I  am  amusing 
myself." 

"I  am  sorry  that  we  cannot  enjoy  the  afternoon 
according  to  latest  ideals,"  the  host  answered.  "How 
ever,  I  must  depend  upon  Miss  Lewis  to  direct  our 
course.  Which  way  shall  we  take?"  he  asked. 

They  had  already  started  on  a  trip  through  the  little 
city. 

"I  am  greatly  flattered,"  Gay  replied.  "But  really, 
I  have  no  choice  when  I  am  in  a  machine.  It  is  just  go, 
go,  go,  with  me.  I  can  almost  arrive  at  Kipling's  meter 
as  I  sit!  sit!  sit!  bobbing  up  and  down  again."  Every 
one  laughed. 

"And  you  don't  mind  a  rough  road?"  Mrs.  Tilton- 
Jones  demanded  with  literal  surprise. 

"Not  as  much  as  most  people,"  Miss  Lewis  answered. 
"I,  for  one,  shall  not  complain  this  afternoon.  I  never 
felt  a  more  comfortable  car." 

"It  moves  along  perfectly,"  said  Isabel,  who  had 
thus  far  been  quiet. 

"And  will  no  one  dictate  our  way?"  the  host  again 
inquired.  As  he  spoke,  the  chauffeur  shot  onward  in 
the  direction  of  the  mission.  Philip  alone  felt  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  driver's  plan.  But  he  made  up  his 
mind,  once  and  for  all,  that  nothing  imaginary  should 
disturb  his  peace  of  mind,  or  ever  again  come  as  a 
phantom  between  himself  and  Isabel.  He  no  longer 
seemed  to  shrink  from  a  farewell  view  of  the  old  church. 


158  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

This  would  be  the  last  one.  Nor  was  he  perturbed 
when  later  the  machine  stopped  on  the  verge  of  the 
broad  pavement  leading  to  steps  beyond.  Not  until 
Mrs.  Tilton-Jones  cried  out,  begging  to  peep  within  the 
mission  now  resounding  with  voices  of  singing  monks, 
did  he  fully  understand.  Then  he  knew,  knew  that  to 
refuse  to  go  inside  on  account  of  afternoon  service  was 
to  virtually  acknowledge  himself  a  disgraced  man.  In 
an  instant  he  decided.  His  wife  hesitated,  but  he 
insisted  that  she  should  get  out  of  the  car.  Everything 
happened  quickly.  With  all  pressing  forward,  Philip 
began  to  climb  the  stone  flight  to  the  church.  There 
was  no  escape,  he  must  act  as  a  man.  Isabel  felt  his 
arm  beneath  her  own.  She  did  not  speak.  Gay 
Lewis  walked  on  the  other  side,  and  Mrs.  Tilton-Jones 
now  joined  the  row. 

"What  terrible  steps,"  the  lady  complained.  "I'm 
not  a  Catholic,  so  don't  appreciate  a  penance.  But  I 
am  delighted  to  have  a  look  inside.  The  monks  sing 
wonderfully!  just  hear  them."  She  chattered  on,  to 
the  very  door.  Evidently  she  had  not  heard  of 
Philip's  former  career.  Isabel  was  relieved  and  en 
tered  the  church  with  a  sense  of  unexpected  pleasure. 
She  thought  she  detected  the  baritone  of  the  brother 
whom  she  had  once  heard;  then  the  voice  stilled.  A 
priest  was  intoning. 

Now  all  Catholics  were  devoutly  kneeling,  mur 
muring  evening  prayers.  Philip  Barry  stood  beside 
Isabel,  with  his  head  slightly  bowed.  Others  of  the 
party  used  casual  time  for  glancing  about  the  mission. 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  159 

To  the  man  who  had  once  been  a  priest  the  voice  of 
the  officiating  father,  the  supplicating  swell  of  confes 
sions  born  of  human  transgression,  the  impalpable 
impression  of  detached  souls  coming  back  to  worship, 
were  realities  all  too  startling.  Philip  had  overesti 
mated  his  strength.  He  lifted  his  eyes  and  saw  beyond 
—  far  down  the  long  aisle  —  tall,  lighted  candles  on  the 
holy  altar.  In  brass  vases  he  discerned  stalks  of 
flaming  poinsettias.  Like  blood,  splashed  against  the 
dorsal,  the  scarlet  flowers  flanked  the  golden  treasury 
of  the  hidden  Host.  The  man  had  been  too  long  a 
Catholic  to  forget.  But  prayers  were  over.  The 
choir  of  brown-hooded  monks  had  burst  into  praise 
and  ushers  peered  here  and  there  for  vacant  sittings. 
Then,  with  dismay,  the  excommunicated  priest  followed 
his  friends  and  Isabel  the  entire  length  of  the  old 
church,  to  a  pew  directly  in  front  of  the  chancel. 

He  had  not  counted  on  the  conspicuous  placing  of  a 
noticeable  party.  He  leaned  forward  with  his  head 
in  his  hands .  Instinctively  the  usual  petition  moved  his 
lips.  But  he  sat  up  and  gazed  before  him  with  blinding 
realization  of  his  own  false  attitude.  Why  had  he 
entered?  Again  he  recalled  honest  worshippers  of  the 
morning,  going  up  worn  stones  to  early  service,  at 
length  coming  forth  into  sunlight,  with  rapt  or  tranquil 
faces.  And  about  him  were  the  same  reverential  men 
and  women.  Philip  Barry's  religious  feeling  had 
always  been  emotional  rather  than  spiritual;  still  he 
had  been  born  a  Catholic.  The  beauty  of  impressive 
ritualism,  the  mysticism  of  the  "Elevated  Cup," 


160  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

moved  his  esthetic  nature.  Dreamer  that  he  was,  he 
knew  again  the  power  of  his  inculcated  early  training. 
He  thought  of  his  mother.  Until  to-day  every  tense 
effort  to  recall  her  sympathetic  soul  had  been  vain. 
Now  an  impalpable  presence  reproached  him  — 
separated  him,  as  it  were,  from  Isabel.  In  a  momen 
tary  vision  he  saw  the  dear  face  and  form  of  his  lost 
one.  To  his  imaginative  mind,  beautiful  old  hands 
stretched  out  to  save  him  from  impending  disaster; 
then  everything  before  his  eyes  became  clear,  and  he 
sat  still,  at  the  foot  of  the  chancel,  a  condemned  man. 
Something  whispered  that  to  be  an  outcast  from  his 
Church  would  gradually  starve  his  soul.  Perhaps  he 
should  turn  to  stone,  forget  the  worth  of  Isabel's  price 
less  love  and  devotion  —  what  then?  He  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  possible  suffering  for  his  wife.  Again 
the  congregation  knelt.  Again  he  was  glad  to  bow  his 
head.  For  the  first  time  since  his  marriage  the  dread 
of  disappointing  Isabel  gripped  him.  That  he  should 
have  an  insatiate  longing  for  something  outside  of  their 
close  relation  filled  him  with  terror.  No,  she  must 
never  know.  He  stood  up  at  the  end  of  familiar 
prayers,  responding  silently  to  the  rich  voices  above  in 
the  choir.  At  the  back  of  the  church  the  monks  had 
begun  a  Gloria.  After  all  he  would  be  able  to  control 
himself.  Then  suddenly  there  was  mysterious  agita 
tion,  moving  to  and  fro  of  priests  and  officiating 
brothers.  To  visiting  Protestants  the  commotion 
in  the  chancel  was  not  appalling.  Monks  passing 
hither  and  thither,  priests  turning  splendid  vestments 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  161 

to  front  and  back,  seemed  but  part  of  an  impressive 
service. 

For  Philip  Barry,  duly  educated  to  Catholic  power, 
aware  of  a  ruling  order's  justified  opportunity,  there 
was  a  plain  conclusion.  He  stood  as  one  summoned, 
unable  to  move,  waiting  for  sentence  enjoined  by  his 
own  unpardonable  presumption.  And  above  floated 
the  Gloria.  Intent  on  the  music  Isabel  did  not  turn, 
did  not  see  Philip's  livid  face  as  he  stood  on,  powerless 
to  leave  the  church,  yet  knowing  the  full  penalty  of 
remaining .  Voices  of  singing  monks  withheld  j  udgment . 
Then  finally  with  the  deep  Amen  a  solemn  file  of  offi 
ciating  brothers  marched  from  the  sanctuary.  The 
time  had  come.  Still  Philip  Barry  could  not  move. 
Priests  turned  from  the  holy  altar  with  plain  intent, 
beginning  to  disrobe.  In  stately  shame  each  placed 
his  golden  vestment  upon  a  bench.  Clad  in  their 
cassocks,  all  went  out,  save  the  avenger  of  the  awful 
hour,  now  in  authority.  Philip  saw  him  signal  as 
he  came  slowly  forward  to  the  verge  of  the  chancel. 
Behind  the  communion  rail  he  stopped  and  raised  a 
restraining  hand.  Above  in  the  choir  loft  the  organ 
was  dumb,  not  a  murmur  broke  a  frightful  stillness. 
The  lone  priest  waited.  Every  ear  strained  with 
his  first  deliberate  utterance.  He  was  looking  straight 
at  Philip  Barry.  At  last,  he  spoke : 

"Owing  to  the  presence  in  this  sacred  mission  of  an 
excommunicated  priest,  the  service  is  at  an  end,  the 
congregation  is  dismissed.  Let  it  go  out  at  once,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  prayers  upon  the  lips  of  all  true 


162  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

Catholics."  He  walked  to  the  altar  and  extinguished 
the  last  candle,  scarcely  turning  as  he  drifted  from 
sight  of  the  awe-stricken  crowd.  The  dazed  man, 
singled  out  for  disgrace,  stooped  to  the  floor  for  his  hat, 
rose  again  to  his  full  imperious  height,  smiling  piteously 
at  Isabel  —  then  he  fell  backward,  caught  in  the  arms  of 
his  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

PHILIP  and  Isabel  were  now  at  home.  But  the 
wife  had  not  been  able  to  turn  her  husband's 
mind  from  his  late  public  humiliation.  She 
was  frightened,  miserable.  Would  Philip  always  be 
as  now  —  crushed,  silent  with  the  one  he  loved  best? 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  cheeks  burned, 
while  her  eyes  remained  dry.  She  dared  not  weep, 
dared  not  break  down  before  the  changed,  listless  man 
whom  she  would  save  at  any  cost  to  her  own  anguish. 
As  first  days  of  home-coming  dragged  away  she  began 
to  see  that  she  had  been  presumptuous.  After  all,  her 
marriage  was  not  to  be  a  happy  one.  She  knew  that 
Philip  adored  her  even  more  than  before  the  fatal  after 
noon  at  the  mission,  when  he  had  fallen  unconscious 
at  her  side;  yet  something  obstinate  and  heart-rending 
had  come  between  them.  Tragic  doubt  seemed  to  be 
freezing  her  husband's  tenderness.  With  passionate 
dread  of  misjudging  him  she  withheld  from  day  to  day 
the  question  she  could  not  ask.  She  felt  that  above  all 
she  must  wait  until  the  shock  of  his  cruel  punishment 
had  ceased  to  be  vivid.  During  sleepless  nights,  when 
she  knew  for  the  first  time  the  price  of  a  Catholic 
priest's  apostasy,  there  came  also  the  realization  of 
personal,  unjust  punishment.  Nor  did  she  acknowl 
edge  wrong  for  either  Philip  or  herself;  they  had  done 
no  wrong.  They  were  created  for  each  other,  and 

163 


164  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

their  only  mistake  had  been  the  last  imprudent  visit 
to  a  forbidden  place.  She  grieved  over  her  own  igno 
rance  which  had  permitted  Philip  to  incur  the  risk 
which  had  turned  against  him.  She  was  bitter,  and 
because  of  a  defensive  attitude  she  could  not  under 
stand  her  husband's  crushed  condition.  The  joy  of 
those  first  two  weeks  at  St.  Barnabas  had  departed. 
Isabel  knew  that  she  was  a  constant  reproach  to  the 
stricken  man,  utterly  changed  and  gently  silent. 
Through  days  when  she  tried  to  distract  his  mind  from 
a  forbidden  subject,  driving  him,  herself,  about  the 
country  growing  more  lovely  with  each  hour  of  spring, 
she  felt  the  mutual  strain  to  be  almost  intolerable. 
Lurid  newspaper  accounts  of  Philip's  disgrace  had 
helped  to  convert  their  once  happy  drives  into  per 
functory,  humble  attempts  to  escape  notice.  Now 
they  went  alone  in  a  runabout,  avoiding  every  evi 
dence  of  ostentation.  Country  roads  lured  them  from 
town  and  led  them  on  to  unfrequented  foothill  slopes, 
where  blue  buckthorn  adorned  sweet-smelling  upland 
acres.  Below  the  purple  range  deepened  with  March 
shadows,  swept  by  fickle  sunlight  playing  over  crags 
and  into  canyons,  the  couple  passed  long  intervals  when 
neither  one  of  them  spoke.  Heart-breaking  reticence 
tied  their  tongues.  Each  guessed  the  thoughts  of  the 
other. 

All  about  was  the  bewildering  call  of  fresh  life,  yet 
they  could  not  respond  to  Nature's  glad  outburst. 
Deciduous  orchards,  flushing  buds,  early  almond 
blossoms  pure  as  snow,  wild  flowers,  buckthorn, 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  165 

edging  miles  of  stony  wash  with  tender  blue,  seemed 
only  to  evoke  prolonged  silence.  The  beauty  of  every 
thing  hurt  them,  for  they  were  both  unhappy  and 
afraid  to  speak  plainly.  Then  at  night,  when  each  lay 
wide  awake,  blessing  darkness  which  at  last  hid  their 
faces,  relaxing  after  false  smiles  and  feigned  composure, 
everything  had  to  be  thought  out  once  more.  What 
would  come  of  it  all?  Philip  Barry's  wife  dared  not 
press  the  question.  She  was  young  and  she  could  not 
give  up  easily  her  dream  of  love.  A  passionate  under 
current  of  hope  still  helped  her  to  endure  the  tense 
situation.  Trivialities  of  everyday  life  assisted  her  in 
deceiving  her  household.  She  was  gentle  with  her 
boy  and  thoughtful  for  old  madame.  Servants  saw  no 
change  in  their  mistress.  A  battle  had  begun,  and, 
believing  in  the  odds  of  destiny,  Isabel  marshalled 
reserve  force  and  smiled  before  her  little  world.  But 
at  heart  she  was  frightened.  Again  and  again  she 
remembered  the  awful  moment  when  she  had  believed 
her  husband  to  be  dead.  Now  she  imagined  the 
sweeter  side  of  a  withheld  tragedy.  For  would  Philip 
forget?  Ever  be  the  same  man  he  had  been  before 
he  went  down  disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  a  frightened 
throng  fleeing  from  evil  influence?  Only  a  few  Protes 
tants  understood;  but  these  had  come  to  the  rescue, 
bearing  the  prostrate  stranger  into  open  air  —  out  of  the 
dreadful  place.  Isabel  followed  silently  behind,  like  a 
widow,  giving  up  her  dead.  When  they  laid  her  hus 
band  down  on  the  worn  stone  platform  before  the  mission, 
she  had  begged  piteously  not  to  halt  an  instant.  But  a 


166  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

doctor  stayed  her  anguish  with  the  assurance  of  Philip's 
beating  heart;  and  she  had  dropped  unbelieving  to 
his  side.  Every  one  had  been  kind  —  very  kind.  But 
it  seemed  hours,  while  she  waited — waited!  And  at 
last  they  told  her  that  Philip  had  only  fainted.  All 
that  followed  was  still  fresh  in  her  mind.  And  now 
as  days  passed  she  found  it  impossible  to  forget  vivid 
details  of  the  quick  departure  from  St.  Barnabas,  of  a 
miserable,  unexpected  home-coming. 

Now  her  main  hope  was  her  husband's  book:  that 
might  save  him,  yet  raise  his  self-respect  to  normal. 
She  awaited  eagerly  a  letter  of  acceptance.  To  watch 
for  it  without  appearing  to  do  so  was  difficult.  Once  she 
had  missed  the  postman.  Still  undoubtedly  she  would 
have  heard  in  the  event  of  good  news,  and  good  news 
was  sure!  To-day,  something  seemed  to  cheer  her,  in 
spite  of  Philip's  depression.  Perhaps  it  was  spring, 
glorious  spring!  March  had  come  in  as  a  veritable 
lamb,  and  after  balmy  days  Isabel  dreaded  lowering 
clouds  and  rain.  As  long  as  she  could  drive  Philip 
over  the  country  time  must  appear  to  pass  naturally, 
while  in  temporary  confinement  it  would  be  harder  to 
keep  up  pretenses.  Already  what  is  known  in  Cali 
fornia  as  a  "weather  breeder"  seemed  to  overcharge 
the  senses,  and  even  as  Isabel  left  the  foothills  for  the 
the  homeward  down-grade  spin  she  felt  a  change.  By 
early  evening  clouds  were  forming  above  the  moun 
tains;  next  day  the  sun  refused  to  shine,  and  by  night 
it  rained  so  hard  that  March  took  on  an  Eastern  temper 
and  announced  a  storm.  Isabel  was  disturbed  at  the 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  167 

prospect  of  seclusion.  Once  she  had  loved  rain  as  well 
as  sunshine,  but  now  she  listened  to  the  incessant  down 
pour  with  sinking  heart.  If  only  the  publisher's  letter 
would  come.  She  realized  anew  her  husband's  strange 
condition,  which  instead  of  lifting  was  getting  worse. 
Despondency  was  gnawing  at  his  self-respect.  He  was 
ill,  shattered  beyond  his  own  control.  And  his  wife 
felt  powerless  to  call  a  physician.  For  Philip  had  been 
obdurate  with  their  home-coming,  had  refused  to  con 
sult  a  doctor.  Isabel  feared  to  press  the  matter,  yet 
wondered  if  she  were  wise  to  wait.  Perhaps  Philip's 
sudden  fall  had  been  more  than  mere  fainting!  The 
shock  of  public  dishonor  might  have  broken  a  blood 
vessel  of  his  brain  —  a  vessel  so  tiny  that  consciousness 
had  soon  returned.  She  told  herself  that  at  the  end  of 
the  storm  she  would  unburden  her  full  story  to  a  reliable 
specialist,  then  bring  him  to  see  her  husband.  She 
could  no  longer  endure  the  strain  alone.  The  deter 
mination  brought  her  comfort,  while  with  the  force  of 
her  definite  will  she  began  to  plan  for  intervening  hours 
of  rain.  First  of  all,  the  open  fire  of  the  living-room 
should  not  die  down  a  moment.  Like  a  vestal  watch 
ing  her  lamp,  she  piled  on  wood  until  the  dark  paneled 
walls  reflected  the  glow  of  a  rising  blaze.  Then  she 
enticed  Philip  and  Reginald  and  madame  about  the 
hearth.  Cheer  within  made  compelling  contrast  to  a 
dreary  outside.  And  all  day  long  she  strove  to  divert 
her  husband's  mind  from  desperate  musing.  Madame 
read  in  French,  or  the  boy  manipulated  toy  automobiles 
between  the  rugs;  and  when  these  things  failed,  the 


168  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

latest  liveliest  music  was  run  off  on  a  really  fine  me 
chanical  piano  which  until  now  had  been  practically 
forgotten.  By  early  bedtime  the  strenuous  day  seemed 
an  improvement  on  previous  ones  with  pensive  oppor 
tunity  in  the  open.  Isabel  was  hopeful,  glad  to  believe 
that  Philip  would  sleep.  She  felt  weary  herself,  and 
sank  to  rest  without  the  usual  effort  of  nights  past, 
and  rain  fell  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

VERY  early  in  the  morning  a  cloud  burst  flooded 
the  valley.  Little  rivers  ran  on  thoroughfares, 
and  town  gutters  widened  into  dashing  streams. 
Isabel  awakened  with  a  start,  to  hear  the  water  in  the 
Arroyo  Seco  roaring  like  some  mad  thing  released. 
Rampant,  swollen,  an  oncoming  charge  from  the 
mountains  struck  a  stony  vent,  transforming  a  dry, 
volcanic  bed  into  a  running  torrent.  At  intervals 
lightning  flashed  lurid  sheets,  with  distant  rumbling 
thunder.  The  storm  had  broken  into  alarming  fury. 

"Are  you  awake?"  asked  Isabel,  knowing  too  well 
that  Philip  was  not  sleeping. 

"Yes,"  he  confessed.  "Shall  I  get  up  and  look  after 
the  windows?" 

She  knew  that  he  was  trying  to  appear  thoughtful. 
She  assured  him  that  every  part  of  the  house  had  been 
made  secure  before  retiring.  The  two  lay  still,  listening 
to  the  tempest. 

"Isn't  it  frightful?"  Isabel  said  timidly. 

"I  like  it,"  her  husband  answered. 

The  wail  of  the  storm  seemed  a  dirge  to  pent  thoughts. 
Philip  offered  no  tenderness  to  allay  her  fear,  and  she 
was  afraid.  Suddenly  there  came  a  rush  of  wind  and 
a  blasting  zigzag  charge,  with  terrible  instantaneous 
crashing  thunder.  The  clap  reverberated  unchained 

169 


170  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

through  the  mountains.  In  a  second  of  powerful  light 
Isabel  forgot  personal  terror,  forgot  everything  but 
Philip's  face.  For  at  last  she  knew  the  truth;  saw  the 
unchecked  anguish  of  his  tortured  soul.  It  was  all 
worse  than  she  had  thought.  He  was  ill  —  very  ill. 
Her  arms  went  out  about  his  neck.  Her  stored  up 
tears  fell  free  against  his  cheek.  Isabel's  self-control 
was  lost.  She  could  no  longer  hide  her  fear.  She  had 
waited  patiently,  she  would  speak! 

"Tell  me!  oh  tell  me!"  she  implored.  "I  cannot 
bear  it  —  I  shall  die  if  you  do  not  tell  me."  The  secret 
she  had  caught  gave  her  fierce  strength.  "You  wish 
to  leave  me,  you  are  sorry!  You  want  to  go  away 
because  you  think  it  is  a  sin  to  love  me?  You  are 
miserable  because  you  gave  up  —  left  your  Church?" 
Everything  was  bursting  from  her  like  the  tempest.  "  I 
could  let  you  go,"  she  sobbed,  "but  I  cannot  believe 
that  we  have  done  wrong.  It  is  too  cruel.  I  cannot 
give  you  up.  Your  God  never  meant  you  to  suffer 
alone.  If  you  go  back  they  will  make  you  suffer  — 
never  let  you  forget.  And  —  and  you  could  not  forget 
that  I  am  your  wife  —  that  you  love  me?" 

She  clung  to  him  in  fear.  Would  he  answer  her  — 
deny  what  she  said?  "You  do  love  me?"  she  softened 
at  the  thought,  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "We  love 
each  other  as  God  meant  we  should.  We  will  blot  out 
the  past,  live!  You  shall  be  another  man."  She  was 
pleading  her  own  case  with  Philip's.  Her  tears  had 
ceased  to  fall.  "  We  will  do  good  jointly,  do  something 
to  better  the  world,  a  world  outside  of  narrow  creeds  and 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  171 

inhuman  dogma."  She  would  not  acknowledge  the 
advantage  of  his  lost  opportunity.  Individual  power 
for  accomplishment  was  as  honorable  as  to  bow  beneath 
a  yoke.  Her  argument  had  been  forming  through 
miserable  days.  "  Life  is  beautiful !  most  beautiful  when 
we  may  help  others  to  enjoy  it.  When  your  book 
comes  out " 

Philip  sprang  up,  tearing  loose  her  arms.  Then  he  fell 
back.  She  thought  again  that  he  was  dead.  She  tried  to 
turn  on  light  and  failed.  Something  had  been  struck 
in  the  garden!  The  terrific  bolt  must  have  severed 
main  electric  wires.  Trembling  in  darkness  she 
thought  of  a  wax  taper  on  the  dressing  table  and  felt 
about  for  matches.  In  a  momentary  flash  through  the 
window  she  found  what  she  sought.  But  she  dreaded 
to  look  at  Philip.  What  if  —  she  approached  the 
bed,  then  he  sat  up  and  spoke  to  her  as  one  utterly 
despairing. 

"Never  speak  of  the  book  again,"  he  implored.  He 
sank  on  the  pillow,  and  she  waited  for  him  to  go  on. 
"I  should  have  told  you  —  forgive  me,"  he  said  at  last. 
"The  manuscript  has  come  back." 

Isabel  burst  into  fresh  tears.  She  seemed  powerless 
to  remember  her  husband's  alarming  condition.  "No! 
no!"  she  sobbed.  "You  cannot  mean  it, —  there  is 
some  mistake.  The  book  will  make  you  famous,  it 
cannot  fail!" 

"But  it  has  failed,"  he  answered  with  momentary 
strength.  "They  do  not  care  to  publish  it;  it  stands 
dishonored  like  —  the  man  who  wrote  it." 


172  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

She  blanched  at  his  words.  "Come  back!  Your 
manuscript  returned?"  she  faltered.  "You  cannot 
mean  it;  where  is  the  letter?  I  must  see  it." 

He  smiled  piteously,  pointing  to  a  closed  desk  at  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  where  she  found  the  pasteboard 
box  loosely  held  in  brown  paper.  The  name  of  a 
prominent  publishing  house  was  stamped  outside  the 
wrapper  and  inside  was  the  letter. 

She  read,  reread,  with  burning  cheeks  —  a  polite, 
commercial  decision;  then  she  ran  to  Philip.  Her  eyes 
were  blazing  with  champion  light;  her  courage  had 
returned.  Great  love  for  the  stricken  man  gone  down 
before  a  flood  of  disappointment  enveloped  her  being. 
The  force  of  her  wonderful  nature  rose  up  for  fresh 
battle. 

"Darling!"  she  pleaded,  "you  are  too  ill  to  under 
stand."  She  caught  his  hand  as  she  crept  close  to  his 
side.  "They  like  your  book, —  know  that  it  is  fine; 
but  they  are  afraid  of  the  cost  of  publishing  it.  The 
pictures  have  frightened  them  and  they  are  too  com 
mercial  to  take  the  risk  of  a  sumptuous  volume.  One 
refusal  is  nothing !  Our  new  friend  will  know  the  value 
of  your  work,  and  the  manuscript  must  go  to  him  at 
once."  The  positive  current  of  her  magnetic  will, 
the  plausibility  of  her  conviction,  above  all,  her  tender 
ness,  seemed  a  divine  anodyne  for  Philip's  sinking  soul. 
Yet  he  dared  not  hope.  The  shaft  of  disgrace  had  been 
sunk  too  straight.  He  was  too  ill  to  resist  remorse; 
too  weak  to  deny  the  penalty  for  broken  vows;  too 
hopeless  to  defy  authority  which  had  thrust  him  down 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  173 

and  trodden  upon  his  self-respect.  On  the  verge  of 
fatal  prostration,  no  sins  were  blacker  than  his  own. 
Darkest  of  all  appeared  a  selfish  love  forced  upon  inno 
cent  Isabel.  Dishonored  man  that  he  was,  she  must 
share  his  shame.  He  closed  his  weary  eyes. 

His  wife  clung  to  his  hand.  But  one  thought  pos 
sessed  her, — to  call  a  nerve  specialist.  Time  had  passed 
for  deliberation,  now  she  would  act. 

"Darling,"  she  whispered,  "I  am  going  to  send  for  a 
doctor."  He  protested,  and  she  went  on  softly,  plead 
ing  her  right.  "You  will  not  stop  me  this  time,  as  you 
did  when  first  we  came  home?  You  are  not  well.  I  can 
not  bear  to  see  you  growing  worse  when  I  might  bring  re 
lief."  She  felt  him  bending  to  her  stronger  nature,  and 
with  streaks  of  day  showing  through  an  atmosphere 
of  mist,  her  will  power  seemed  to  be  restored. 

He  was  so  quiet  that  she  believed  him  to  be  sleeping. 
She  dared  not  move,  still  holding  his  hand,  thinking 
of  all  which  morning  might  bring  forth.  That  un 
reasonable  dread  of  life  was  beginning  to  threaten 
Philip's  reason,  she  did  not  know;  nor  could  she  under 
stand  the  condition  of  a  person  trained  to  religious  con 
formity,  then  suddenly  cast  adrift,  without  spiritual 
sounding  line.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her  to  doubt 
her  husband's  power  to  live  on  contentedly  without 
settled,  sectarian  belief.  A  religious  education  had  not 
entered  into  her  own  childhood,  and  as  she  grew  older 
she  formulated  views  and  ethical  standards  which 
could  not  be  called  orthodox.  Her  mind  had  developed 
independently. 


174  THE   HIGHER   COURT 

What  an  apostate  priest  might  suffer  she  could  not 
readily  divine.  That  Philip  had  been  born  with  power 
to  move  his  fellowmen  through  spoken  thoughts  she 
did  not  seriously  consider;  nor  did  she  understand  that 
a  vital  preacher  is  distinct  in  his  calling.  As  she  lay 
with  closed  eyes  —  yet  wide  awake  —  she  built  only 
on  the  wisdom  of  a  specialist  who  should  —  who  must  — 
help  her. 

Then  suddenly  Philip  spoke. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  answered.  "I  thought  you  were 
sleeping." 

"Don't  send  for  a  doctor,"  he  pleaded.  "Let  me 
rest  — '•  just  here  —  I  will  soon  be  better."  His  face 
touched  her  own  and  she  felt  that  his  eyes  were  moist. 
A  tear  rolled  down  between  their  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  LULL  following  the  tempest  seemed  an  anodyne 
for  broken  rest.  Philip  forgot  his  anguish 
through  exhaustion,  while  Isabel  dropped  into 
slumber,  which  always  restored  her  power  to  hope. 
Perfect  health  sustained  her.  She  clung  to  the  deter 
mination  to  hold  her  dearly  bought  happiness  de 
spite  discouraging  odds.  At  broad  daylight  she  lay 
awake  and  watchful  by  the  side  of  her  husband. 
Through  open  casements  the  wet  sweetness  of  the  morn 
ing  recharged  her  nerves.  Birds  twittered  excitedly 
from  drenched  trees.  The  nearby  arroyo  sent  outward 
a  song  of  drops,  piling  over  stones.  Isabel  recalled  a 
time  when  she  had  been  awakened  by  the  musical  splash 
of  Roman  fountains.  Then,  as  now,  Philip  Barry 
claimed  her  thoughts,  set  them  bounding  to  the  irre 
sistible  measure  of  falling  water.  During  those  days 
she  had  listened  to  the  rhythmic  call  in  the  old  palace 
garden,  only  to  wonder  about  Philip  and  the  possible 
outcome  of  their  fresh  young  love.  It  seemed  a  long 
way  back  since  those  ideal  weeks.  This  morning  as  she 
lay  still  and  anxious  her  mind  began  to  revert  to  in 
cidental  happenings  which  had  parted  a  boy  and  a 
girl,  but  to  join  them  later  under  tense  conditions.  She 
turned  with  caution  and  peered  into  Philip's  face.  His 
secret  had  touched  his  countenance  with  unconscious 
despair.  His  cheeks  were  growing  hollow.  Around 

175 


176  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

his  compressed  mouth  Isabel  saw  deepening  lines.  She 
felt  again  that  her  husband  could  be  saved  only  with 
the  help  of  a  discerning  specialist.  Time  seemed  pre 
cious  and  she  slipped  softly  from  the  sleeper's  side  to 
her  own  room.  It  was  early  for  a  bath,  but  her  firm 
young  flesh  cried  out  for  refreshment  as  she  plunged 
into  cool  water.  Strength  came  as  the  result  of  a 
regular  habit  and  she  dressed  quickly,  then  went  below. 
Only  Wing,  the  Chinese  cook,  was  at  his  post.  Maids, 
kept  awake  by  the  storm,  had  overslept.  Isabel  wan 
dered  through  a  closed  house  to  find  her  faithful 
celestial  already  at  work.  His  white  garments,  noise 
less  shoes,  and  optimistic  smile  always  gave  her  pleas 
ure.  "Good  morning,"  she  said. 

Wing  turned  in  evident  dismay.  "Why  you  up  so 
early?"  he  asked  with  the  childlike  freedom  of  the 
Oriental.  "Those  girls  heap  lazy!  not  come  down  yet 
—  house  all  dark."  He  spread  his  slender  brown  hands 
in  feigned  disgust.  "I  gless  you  not  know  that  big 
tree  fall  over  las  night?  Most  hit  my  klitchen.  You 
come  see."  He  threw  open  the  screen,  pointing  be 
yond.  Isabel  saw  a  Monterey  pine  low  and  done  for 
by  the  storm.  Heavy,  drenched  branches,  crushed 
and  aromatic,  rose  from  the  ground  to  the  top  of  a 
nearby  porch,  which  had  just  escaped  them.  Years  of 
growth  and  vigor  were  down  with  a  blast  from  the  sur 
charged  sky.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  human  significance 
of  the  fallen  pine. 

"Poor  thing!"  she  exclaimed,  peering  into  upturned 
limbs  of  the  vanquished  tree.  "  Poor  thing ! " 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  177 

Wing  beamed.  His  white  teeth  flashed  credulous 
interest.  "You  think  that  tree  get  hurt  —  all  same 
me?  "  he  demanded.  Isabel  saw  that  she  was  planting 
fresh  superstition  on  celestial  soil. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  she  answered.  "Still,  a  great 
tree  could  hardly  tear  away  from  earth  without  feeling 
it.  It  must  have  suffered,"  she  maintained.  Uncon 
sciously  she  was  thinking  of  her  husband.  That  Philip 
had  been  uprooted,  cast  down  like  the  pine  filled  her 
with  dread  as  she  went  quickly  from  the  kitchen.  But 
the  storm,  which  left  the  house  in  total  darkness  during 
the  night  had  also  interfered  with  telephone  service. 
After  vain  attempts  to  communicate  with  the  central 
office,  she  dashed  off  a  note  to  a  well-known  nerve 
specialist.  She  begged  him  to  come  at  once,  explaining 
that  her  husband  was  too  ill  to  leave  his  bed.  From  the 
terrace  she  watched  the  gardener  depart  with  her  note. 
She  felt  at  last  like  one  who  stakes  all  on  a  final  venture. 
Would  the  doctor  come  soon?  Would  Philip  resent  the 
visit?  Above  all,  how  should  she  break  the  news  to  the 
invalid,  who  begged  to  be  left  alone?  "Don't  call  a 
doctor,"  he  had  pleaded;  and  again  she  wondered  if  she 
had  been  wise  in  a  grave  emergency.  The  house  was 
now  astir.  Belated  maids  were  at  work.  Soon  shrill 
exclamations  arose  from  the  wet  garden.  Madame 
had  discovered  the  fallen  pine,  to  fly  below  with  the 
boy.  Reginald  was  proudly  equipped  with  rubber 
boots.  His  red  coat  flashed  as  he  outran  his  ex 
cited  companion.  Isabel  translated  the  French 
woman's  lament  for  the  lost  tree;  then  the  boy  cried 


178  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

out  in  distress.  His  mother  reached  his  side  to  find 
him  in  tears,  holding  a  dead  oriole.  The  once  gay, 
golden  little  creature  lay  limp  in  the  child's  hand. 

"Poor  birdy!  See,  he's  all,  all  broken!"  he  be 
moaned.  "Can't  you  mend  him,  mother  dear?  Can't 
you  make  him  stand  up?" 

"He  has  been  hurt  by  the  storm,"  Isabel  explained, 
stroking  the  feathers  of  the  little  victim.  "Perhaps 
he  lived  in  the  pine  tree.  We  may  find  his  nest." 

Reginald  began  to  search  along  the  path,  while 
Isabel  found  a  sharpened  stick.  When  she  came  to  a 
clump  of  ferns  she  bent  and  quickly  dug  a  tiny  bed 
in  the  wet  earth.  Her  son,  running  back,  saw  that  the 
oriole  was  gone. 

"There  wasn't  any  nest!"  he  shouted,  gazing  in 
credulously  at  his  mother's  empty  hand,  "And  I  sup 
pose  the  poor  birdy 's  all  mended.  Why  didn't  you 
wait?  I  wanted  —  I  wanted  to  see  him  fly  away." 
Fresh  tears  betokened  the  boy's  disappointment. 
Isabel  felt  justified  in  the  deception,  as  she  led  the  child 
indoors.  He  would  understand  soon  enough. 

Wing  had  just  brought  back  a  dainty  tray,  with  every 
thing  on  it  declined  by  the  master.  The  good  fellow 
was  greatly  distressed.  "Boss  not  eat  —  he  die! 
Sure!"  he  muttered. 

Isabel  went  above.  She  felt  again  that  she  had  done 
right  in  calling  a  physician,  and  strove  for  courage  to 
announce  the  approaching  visit.  When  she  entered 
her  husband's  room  he  seemed  to  be  dozing.  She  did 
not  rouse  him.  Perhaps,  after  all,  sleep  would  prove 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  179 

to  be  Philip's  best  medicine,  and  something  whispered 
that  her  apparent  anxiety  was  not  good  for  the  broken 
man  she  loved.  She  went  out,  acknowledging  a  mis 
take.  When  Philip  awoke  she  would  tell  him  about 
the  doctor,  with  incidental  lightness.  Then  sooner 
than  she  expected  she  heard  an  automobile  and  knew 
that  her  note  had  been  timely.  The  specialist  was  at 
hand  —  in  the  hall  below.  She  could  not  prepare 
Philip  for  an  unwelcome  call.  But  she  was  eager  to 
unburden  her  heart,  willing  to  rest  her  fear  with  one 
who  ought  to  assume  it.  And  at  once  she  told  of  her 
husband's  early  education,  of  the  first  success  of  his 
priesthood,  of  his  ambition  for  a  great  Middle  West 
cathedral,  of  the  bishop's  unjust  course,  of  Philip's 
natural  struggle,  followed  with  excommunication  from 
the  Church ;  then  all  too  soon  —  before  he  could  read 
just  his  life  —  of  the  public  humiliation  in  the  old 
mission.  She  kept  nothing  back  but  her  own  hard  part 
as  the  wife  of  an  apostate  priest.  The  dread  that  she 
had  been  the  sole  cause  of  a  brilliant  man's  undoing 
she  bravely  acknowledged.  Philip  could  not  forget, 
could  not  supplement  his  relinquished  work  with 
domestic  happiness. 

"Yet  he  adores  me,"  she  confessed.  "It  is  not 
just  that  he  should  suffer  —  as  he  does.  His  heart  is 
breaking.  He  feels  it  a  sin  to  love  me  —  to  go  on  with 
happiness." 

"And  you?"  said  Dr.  Judkin. 

She  tried  to  smile.  "Women  can  bear  more  than 
men."  Her  voice  broke. 


180  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

The  man  by  her  side  felt  her  charm,  knew  that  she 
was  valiant  in  love.  Still  he  saw  disappointment  in  her 
tense  resistance.  "I  am  afraid  that  you,  too,  will  soon 
need  attention,"  he  abruptly  told  her.  "Sometimes  a 
wife  spoils  her  husband  without  realizing  it.  Men  who 
think  a  great  deal  about  themselves  are  not  con 
siderate." 

She  was  offended  and  replied  coldly,  "You  do  not 
know  him.  It  is  unjust  to  judge  of  a  patient  before  you 
have  seen  him." 

"  I  stand  reproved,"  the  doctor  admitted. 

Isabel  forgave  him.  His  very  bluntness  brought  her 
hope.  Suddenly  she  felt  faith  in  the  man  whom  she 
had  summoned.  She  believed  that  he  was  masterful, 
and  she  must  turn  to  some  one. 

"Please  come,"  she  invited,  "you  shall  see  my 
husband." 

Dr.  Judkin  stood  aside  for  her  to  pass,  and  she  went 
above,  choosing  words  which  should  explain  his  early 
call.  Then  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  she  stopped. 

"Be  good  enough  to  wait,"  she  begged.  "I  must 
prepare  him  —  go  in  first."  Then  she  flew  forward, 
for  the  smell  of  burning  paper  had  caught  her  nostrils. 
The  door  to  Philip's  apartment  was  fastened.  She 
had  been  locked  out!  She  rushed  to  a  balcony  run 
ning  before  the  windows  of  her  husband's  room.  In 
an  instant  she  stood  within.  And  she  had  not  come  a 
moment  too  soon.  A  fresh  tragedy  faced  her.  She 
hardly  breathed.  Philip,  on  his  knees  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  did  not  hear  her  enter.  The  ecstasy  of 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  181 

delirium  possessed  him.  His  whole  body  trembled 
as  he  showered  an  igniting  pile  with  his  rejected  manu 
script.  "The  Spirit  of  the  Cathedral"  was  smoking. 
Isabel  saw  rising  flame  desert  a  blackened  sketch  of  a 
famous  duomo  but  to  lick  a  painting  of  great  St. 
Peter's.  Once  more  dominant  Romish  power  appeared 
to  threaten.  The  curse  of  the  Church  seemed  about  to 
blaze  anew  for  Philip. 

Her  heart  thumped  as  she  flew  to  his  side.  "How 
can  you?"  she  pleaded.  "You  have  forgotten  your 
friend  —  who  trusted  you.  You  must  not  spoil  his 
beautiful  pictures."  Her  hand  reached  out  and  coolly 
rescued  scorching  sheets  of  the  unpublished  book. 
"But  you  did  not  mean  to  hurt  an  artist's  work," 
she  gently  added.  She  held  a  ruined  sketch  before  the 
sick  man's  staring  eyes.  "You  did  not  remember. 
You  did  not  mean  to  be  unfair  to  your  friend."  The 
tenderness  of  her  frightened,  loving  soul  broke  over  the 
shattered  man,  as  she  led  him  away  to  bed.  He  went 
like  an  obedient  child;  then  she  unlocked  the  door  and 
summoned  the  doctor. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

TWO  trained  nurses  had  been  installed.  Isabel 
no  longer  held  her  place  at  Philip's  bedside. 
She  was  virtually  banished  from  her  husband's 
room.  The  courage  which  she  had  evinced  during 
previous  weeks  seemed  to  be  going  fast.  Now  she 
hardly  dared  to  hope.  A  silent  house  already  took  on 
the  atmosphere  of  disaster.  Even  Reginald  was  not 
permitted  to  shout  in  the  garden.  And  withal  spring 
was  at  hand,  seemingly  to  brighten  the  whole  world, 
outside  of  Philip's  closed  apartments.  The  sap  of  fresh 
life  ran  in  the  veins  of  every  living  thing  in  the  valley, 
on  the  foothills,  above  in  the  mountains.  The  season 
had  advanced  without  a  check,  while  throughout  the 
Southwest  blooming  fruit  trees  and  millions  of  roses 
prepared  the  land  for  Easter. 

To  Isabel  sensuous  beauty  on  every  side  seemed 
cruel.  Her  heart  felt  desolate.  She  went  through 
each  day  wishing  for  night,  while  with  darkness  she 
longed  for  sunlight.  Suspense  was  beginning  to  drain 
her  vitality.  She  did  not  complain,  but  the  doctor 
saw  her  brace  herself  against  each  discouraging  out 
come  of  days  that  dragged.  For  Philip's  last  collapse 
had  turned  her  from  his  side.  She  was  barely  a  mem 
ory  to  the  man  she  loved.  At  first  she  had  rebelled, 
then  accepted  conditions  enjoined  by  Dr.  Judkin  and 

182 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  183 

consulting  specialists.     Only  one  thing  helped  her  to 
endure  the  strain  of  a  cruel  separation. 

Philip's  book  —  now  speaking  to  her  heart  as  she 
knew  it  would  speak  —  brought  strange,  proud  com 
fort.  She  felt  exalted  that  she  —  his  wife  —  had 
saved  the  manuscript  from  the  flames.  During  a 
week  she  fairly  lived  in  the  scorched  pages  of  "The 
Spirit  of  the  Cathedral."  And  gradually  she  began 
to  see  why  the  work  had  been  refused.  Personal  feeling 
and  blind  enthusiasm  were  at  last  tempered.  She 
could  read  with  a  cool  intellect.  The  Laodicean  atti 
tude  of  a  shrewd  publisher  hurt  her  less  than  at  first. 
For  the  fact  still  remained  that  Philip  had  produced 
something  fine.  Although  he  occasionally  dropped  his 
impassioned  theme  to  give  vent  to  slight  discord, 
nothing  had  really  been  lost  from  his  original  motif. 
Reading  between  the  lines,  Isabel  detected  the  natural 
temptation  under  which  he  had  worked.  Certain  para 
graphs,  all  unaided  by  a  magnetic  voice  and  delivery, 
read  too  much  like  his  former  sermons.  Sometimes 
overcharged,  almost  vindictive  handling  of  Romish 
background  was  evident.  In  those  first  weeks  in 
Paris,  after  he  had  deserted  the  priesthood  and  been 
cast  out  of  the  Church,  he  had  written  without  restraint. 
He  had  said  things  best  left  unsaid.  Yet,  as  Isabel 
read  on,  she  marvelled  at  Philip's  virile  touch,  at  the 
masterful,  dramatic  power  of  his  pen.  His  word 
pictures  drawn  from  vivid,  exceptional  opportunity 
required  no  literal  illustration.  Still  she  studied  the 
sketches  of  the  associate  artist,  finally  selecting  one 


184  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

fourth  of  the  cathedrals  submitted.  Then  she  read 
over  again  the  stronger  chapters  of  the  singed  manu 
script.  It  was  late  into  night  before  she  weighed  the 
possible  chances  of  her  husband's  book.  He  had 
labored  so  intelligently  that  her  hand  seemed  to  be 
guided  by  his  own  as  she  omitted  paragraphs  which 
undoubtedly  influenced  the  publishers  to  refuse  a  some 
what  prejudiced  work. 

Isabel  felt  free  to  decide  for  Philip.  His  extremity 
excused  her  arbitrary  action.  She  was  sure  that  in  his 
normal  condition  he  would  agree  to  all  that  she  had 
done.  When  scorched  pages  had  been  replaced  by 
fresh  ones  she  would  send  the  revised  manuscript  to 
the  publisher  she  had  met  at  St.  Barnabas,  the  one 
who  had  witnessed  the  withstayed  tragedy  in  the 
mission.  She  believed  that  her  new  friend  could 
appreciate  the  significance  of  a  book  written  by  one 
who  not  only  criticised  expertly,  but  knew  as  well  the 
human  side  of  a  great  cathedral.  Her  thoughts  went 
back  to  a  time  when  Philip  —  a  priest  —  had  outlined 
plans  for  the  noble  church  he  hoped  to  build.  Then 
nothing  seemed  too  big  for  his  young  city.  Isabel 
smiled,  and  began  to  read  once  more. 

Suddenly  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  put  aside  the 
manuscript.  After  all,  what  right  had  she  to  tamper 
with  her  husband's  work?  From  Philip's  higher 
standpoint,  painted  or  stone  saints  and  angels,  looking 
down  from  Gothic  heights,  meant  nothing  to  her, 
outside  of  their  mere  artistic  value.  She  saw  with 
fresh  dread  that  Philip  was  still  a  Catholic.  Early 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  185 

education  and  his  lost  mother's  devout  influence  kept 
him  apart  from  natural  happiness.  He  should  have 
remained  a  priest,  a  power  in  his  Church.  She  re 
membered  how  once  she  had  stood  with  him  in  St. 
Peter's  —  in  front  of  the  "Pieta."  He  had  then  almost 
forgotten  her  presence.  The  wrapt  significance  of  his 
expression  ought  to  have  warned  her.  She  felt  once 
more  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  share  her  hus 
band's  feeling  for  an  old  master's  sacred  ideal.  And 
later,  when  the  two  were  passing  the  noted  bronze  of 
St.  Peter,  she  recalled  that  she  had  failed  to  hide  her 
repulsion  for  the  throng  straining  to  kiss  the  statue's 
jutting,  shining  toe.  Philip  divined  her  thoughts  and 
flushed.  "It  comforts  them,"  he  had  whispered. 
"Over  here  the  poor  have  so  little  in  their  lives.  What 
seems  absurd  to  you  is  for  them  salvation." 

To-night  Isabel  remembered  everything  now  bearing 
on  her  husband's  tragic  state.  Her  heart  grew  heavy 
with  fear,  with  vague  foreboding. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

PHILIP'S  physical  condition  had  improved  during 
six  weeks  of  masterful  nursing.  Isabel  was  at 
last  permitted  to  see  him  for  ten  short  minutes; 
then  she  kept  her  promise  and  went  from  the  room. 
This  morning  she  sank  into  a  chair,  mutely  listening  to 
the  doctor's  voice. 

"He  has  come  out  much  better  than  I  expected,"  he 
confessed.  "Our  nurses  have  left  nothing  undone. 
The  patient  has  responded  to  the  limit  of  his  burned- 
down  condition.  We  shall  save  him." 

She  lifted  a  face  wet  with  tears.  "Oh,"  she  begged, 
"may  I  help  —  do  some  little  thing?  I  have  waited 
so  long.  It  has  been  hard,  hard,  to  see  other  women 
always  at  his  side,  when  his  wife  might  not  even  give 
him  a  glass  of  water." 

Rebellion  which  she  had  hidden  through  past  days 
burst  forth.  "May  I  not  let  one  of  the  nurses  go?  I 
long  to  do  my  natural  part." 

Dr.  Judkin  stopped  pacing.  "Listen  to  me,"  he 
commanded.  She  braced  herself  for  fresh  disappoint 
ment,  knowing  well  the  superior  wisdom  of  the  man's 
despotic  practice.  "Listen!"  he  repeated.  "You 
have  already  done  what  few  women  can  do  —  sub 
mitted  magnificently  to  a  passive  part.  And  you  have 
helped  me  more  than  you  will  ever  know."  She  felt  a 
new  demand  back  of  his  words.  "Now  is  the  crucial 

186 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  187 

test  of  your  will  power.  I  have  been  waiting  anxiously 
for  this  particular  point  in  your  husband's  case.  The 
physical  collapse  has  been  arrested  and  he  is  now  ready 
for  a  complete  change  of  scene.  He  needs  a  sea  voyage, 
with  continued  quiet,  but  nothing  familiar  to  arouse 
consciousness  of  past  events." 

"Oh, "  she  cried,  "I  may  take  him  abroad?  Perhaps 
to  Japan?  I  can  go  to  any  part  of  the  world  which  you 
think  best  for  him."  Her  voice  rang  joy.  Color  ran 
into  her  cheeks.  "You  have  been  so  good  to  me  —  so 
patient  with  my  own  impatience.  And  I  knew  that 
you  could  save  him!  Something  told  me  that  first 
awful  morning  that  you  would  help  me,  that  you 
would  be  my  friend." 

The  doctor  stood  powerless  to  tell  her  his  real  decision. 
Through  weeks  he  had  felt  the  passionate  suffering 
beneath  her  well-bred  composure.  Character  had  stilled 
her  bursting  heart.  He  frowned,  looking  down  at  a 
pattern  in  the  rug. 

"You  have  not  quite  understood  me,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  The  change  of  which  I  speak  must  be  absolute, 
entirely  outside  of  —  of  —  tempting  association.  As 
yet  the  patient  must  sink  reviving  interest  in  life  to  the 
dead  level  of  his  nurse,  to  the  advent  of  meals  served 
on  the  deck  of  a  quiet  ship." 

"You  mean  that  I  should  engage  a  private  yacht?" 
Isabel  eagerly  asked.  "  I  know  of  one  owned  by  a  friend 
who  will  let  me  have  it.  Shall  I  wire  at  once?" 

Again  the  man  by  her  side  was  baffled.  Of  late  his 
brusque  announcements  had  perceptibly  softened. 


188  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

To-day,  knowing  as  only  a  physician  does,  the  tragedy 
of  certain  marital  relations,  this  woman's  great  love 
rebuked  his  ruthless  plan.  Still  he  must  speak,  make  a 
professional  edict  clear.  "But  you  are  not  to  accom 
pany  your  husband,"  he  abruptly  told  her.  "You 
might  undo  the  work  of  weeks,  make  the  patient's 
ultimate  recovery  doubtful." 

His  words  came  hard,  plain.  Isabel  sat  stunned  and 
silent. 

"Philip  Barry  will  come  back  from  his  voyage 
another  man,"  the  doctor  deliberately  promised.  "And 
the  separation  will  not  be  as  hard  as  it  now  seems. 
After  the  fight  for  your  husband's  life  and  reason  you 
may  feel  that  we  are  about  to  conquer.  Tahiti  —  the 
isle  of  rest  —  will  restore  him  wholly." 

Isabel  did  not  answer.  Only  tightly  clasped  hands 
betrayed  her  agitation.  The  doctor  went  on: 

"I  have  taken  the  voyage  to  Tahiti  myself.  Five 
years  ago  I  was  a  nervous  wreck  when  I  sailed  from 
San  Francisco.  Twenty-one  days  later,  when  I  landed 
at  the  Society  Islands,  at  Tahiti,  I  was  a  new  man. 
Weeks  on  the  water,  without  a  word  from  the  world 
behind  me  had  worked  a  miracle.  On  the  upper  deck 
of  the  comfortable  little  ship  I  forgot  my  troubles 
through  pure  joy  of  existence.  All  day  long  I  rested 
body  and  brain.  With  evening  the  blood -red  sun 
plunged  into  a  molten  sea.  Then  blue  sky  suddenly 
changed  to  violet,  and  deepening  shadow  brought  out 
the  stars  —  the  Southern  Cross.  I  began  to  feel  like 
a  different  person." 


THE  HIGHER   COURT  189 

An  eloquent  outburst  awakened  no  response.  The 
doctor  saw  that  he  must  speak  decidedly.  His  next 
words  fell  with  brutal  authority. 

"Your  husband  must  be  made  ready  to  start  for 
San  Francisco  at  once.  A  boat  leaves  Port  Los 
Angeles  day  after  to-morrow.  It  is  best  that  our 
patient  should  avoid  the  train,  and  in  going  by  water 
he  will  have  half  a  day  and  a  night  to  rest  in  some  good 
hotel.  The  ship  sails  at  noon, —  on  the  seventeenth." 

He  was  beginning  to  think  that  Mrs.  Barry's  silence 
meant  compliance.  Resignation  seemed  to  be  a  part  of 
her  marvelous  character.  And  at  last  she  unclasped 
her  hands,  pressing  them  before  her  eyes.  But  he 
heard  her  gently  sobbing. 

"Don't!"  he  humbly  entreated.  "You  must  not 
forget  what  I  have  promised.  You  shall  have  your 
husband  back  —  well!  He  will  put  all  behind  him! 
forget  everything  but  his  wife." 

She  did  not  answer.  Dr.  Judkin  waited  until  her 
hands  left  her  eyes.  Then  she  began  to  speak  with 
fresh  determination. 

"Why  can  I  not  go  too?  on  the  same  boat,  just  to  be 
near  him  in  case  he  needs  me.  I  should  not  let  him 
know  that  I  was  on  board,  not  make  even  a  sign, — 
unless  —  he  missed  me.  Oh !  let  me  go  with  him.  It  is 
not  fair  that  another  woman  should  have  my  place  — 
my  absolute  right  to  be  near  him.  He  is  my  husband! 
I  cannot  bear  it." 

Tempered  passion  could  no  longer  conceal  her  feeling. 
She  was  blazing  with  jealous  rebellion.  For  the  time 


190  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

being  the  nurse  who  had  given  satisfaction  was  an 
enemy  —  a  woman  usurping  the  place  of  Philip's 
wife.  Yet  the  specialist  knew  that  she  would  submit. 
She  loved  too  perfectly  to  withstand  reason.  Suddenly 
he  saw  his  way  out  of  a  tense  situation. 

"I  had  forgotten  to  tell  you,"  he  interrupted,  "I 
am  going  to  send  my  assistant,  Dr.  Ward.  Our  patient 
is  so  much  better  that  it  seems  to  be  time  for  an  abso 
lute  change,  even  in  regard  to  his  nurse.  When 
Philip  Barry  returns  he  will  be  another  man.  Dr. 
Ward  is  the  best  of  company,  a  splendid  fellow,  with 
rare  common  sense."  He  saw  her  tremble.  "We  will 
engage  a  special  ship  steward  to  assist,  and  everything 
shall  be  done  for  your  husband's  comfort." 

Her  face  lifted  like  a  smitten  flower.  The  blaze  in 
her  eyes  subsided.  She  looked  into  the  doctor's  face 
as  a  conquered  child.  "  I  have  been  very  weak  —  very 
unreasonable,"  she  faltered.  "Now  I  will  do  every 
thing  that  you  think  best, — make  you  no  more  trouble." 
She  tried  to  laugh.  "  I  am  going  to  be  good, —  good 
like  Reg." 

"Then  we  shall  get  out  of  the  woods,"  he  answered. 
"And  mind  —  you  are  not  to  grow  thin  while  Philip 
Barry  grows  fat  in  Tahiti.  If  you  are  really  going  to 
be  good  you  must  relax,  put  away  anxiety.  When 
Philip  comes  home  he  must  see  you  in  the  height  of 
bloom.  I  first  want  you  to  go  to  bed  at  least  for  a 
week.  Then  you  may  take  to  the  saddle,  cultivate 
friends,  enjoy  yourself  as  every  one  should  in  God's 
country  —  in  springtime." 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  191 

To-day  Dr.  Judkin  seemed  pleased  with  the  world. 
His  patient  was  more  than  promising,  while  Mrs. 
Barry  appealed  to  him  irresistibly.  He  put  out  his 
hand,  doggedly  determined  to  save  her  husband. 
"Keep  a  brave  heart,"  he  prescribed,  "everything  is 
now  going  our  way." 

But  once  outside  he  asked  himself  if  courage  such  as 
Isabel's  deserved  the  test  of  possible  disappointment. 
What,  after  all,  must  be  the  outcome  of  Philip  Barry's 
recovery?  Would  he  realize  fresh  obligation  to  a 
woman's  almost  divine  love?  Would  he  be  able  to 
put  out  of  his  own  life  withering  emotions  of  regret? 
Dr.  Judkin  had  not  known  his  patient  before  the  total 
collapse  of  weeks  back,  and  he  could  not  consistently 
answer  hard  questions.  To  vouch  for  the  man's 
future  behavior  was,  after  all,  impossible;  and  yet,  he 
had  just  promised  Isabel  to  save  him  for  years  to  come. 
The  futility  of  finite  judgment,  the  mistakes  of  theo 
retical  practice,  the  guesswork  involved  in  a  case  such  as 
Barry's,  tempered  the  specialist's  confidence.  He 
went  flying  on  his  way  depressed.  Then  he  remem 
bered  that  Isabel  seemed  to  be  an  absolute  exception  to 
many  of  the  wives  belonging  to  her  apparently  enviable 
station.  She  gave  out  for  joy  of  giving.  Love  such 
as  hers  refused  to  be  measured  by  modern  standards 
or  a  husband's  limitations. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ISABEL  was  parted  from  Philip.  She  had  watched 
him  sail  from  Port  Los  Angeles,  then  quickly 
entered  a  waiting  touring  car.  Dr.  Judkin's 
fears  were  groundless,  as  the  homeward  trip  had 
proved  to  be  pleasant,  almost  like  a  vent  for 
the  wife's  tense  feeling.  It  was  clear  that  she 
had  staked  everything  on  her  husband's  ocean  voyage. 
Despite  a  hard  separation  she  was  hopeful.  She 
seemed  determined  to  accept  present  conditions, 
meanwhile  living  for  the  fulfillment  of  happier  months 
to  come. 

And  with  her  usual  force,  she  at  once  began  to  engage 
in  active  matters.  Dr.  Judkin's  injunction  to  rest  was 
forgotten.  She  seemed  to  be  suddenly  strong.  The 
doctor's  rash  promise  intoxicated  her;  Philip,  just 
gone,  was  dearer  than  ever.  She  said  over  and  over 
that  he  would  come  back  well,  able  to  respond  to  fresh 
opportunities.  He  should  find  them  waiting,  and 
friends,  too.  It  was  yet  early  in  the  day.  Isabel 
dressed  carefully,  ordered  her  carriage  and  went  forth 
to  pay  visits.  New  acquaintances  must  see  that  she 
was  not  a  crushed  wife.  She  wanted  to  tell  every  one 
that  her  husband  was  getting  better.  The  splendid 
pride  of  her  young  nature  rose  up  for  conquest.  Pity 
was  not  for  Isabel.  And  after  a  pleasant  outing  she  re 
turned  to  find  the  house,  withal,  more  cheerful  than  for 

192 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  193 

weeks  back.  Nurses  had  gone,  and  Reginald's  un 
restrained  shouts  echoed  at  will. 

"  Mother  darling !  Mother  darling ! "  the  little  fellow 
had  cried.  "How  pretty  your  dress  is!  Have  you 
been  getting  married  this  afternoon?  Please  read  me 
a  story  like  you  used  to,"  he  demanded. 

"I  will  tell  you  one,"  Isabel  said  gently.  Then 
she  gathered  her  son  in  her  arms.  His  head  rested 
against  her  breast,  as  she  began  to  tell  him  about  far 
away  Tahiti.  She  colored  a  simple  narrative  until  it 
glowed  with  personal  interest.  The  boy  listened  hap 
pily.  A  little  brown  hand  held  her  own  fairer  one, 
turning  her  jeweled  rings,  while  she  pictured  "Father 
Philip's"  boat,  the  island  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean, 
native  boys  and  girls  selling  garlands,  the  possibility 
of  whales,  of  flying  fish,  and  everything  else  that  natu 
rally  belonged  to  the  story.  With  Philip  as  her  hero, 
Isabel  felt  able  to  spin  indefinite  situations  for  sea  or 
land.  Spring  twilight  seemed  to  cast  its  spell  over 
mother  and  son.  The  English  nurse  came  twice  before 
the  tale  of  Tahiti  was  finished.  Reginald,  unmindful 
of  a  supper  of  bread  and  milk,  paid  no  heed  to  an  invi 
tation;  and  for  some  new  reason  Isabel  encouraged  her 
boy  to  disregard  hitherto  accepted  authority. 

"When  I  have  eated  a  lot  and  get  all  weddy  for  bed 
I'll  come  back,"  the  little  fellow  at  last  promised.  "I 
want  some  more  'lapping'  and  another  story  about  the 
big  whales.  Then  I'll  say  my  French  prayer."  He 
hopped  away  on  one  leg.  Isabel  heard  his  voice 
piping  triumph.  "I'm  coming  back!  I'm  coming 


194  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

back!  Goody!  goody!  She  said  I  might."  Then  the 
door  closed. 

Isabel  sat  on,  thinking  of  past  silent  weeks,  asking 
herself  if  her  boy  had  not  been  harshly  treated.  Dear 
little  chap !  he  might  now  make  noise.  Later  the  child 
kept  his  word,  rushing  down  in  night  clothes  for  his 
good  night  "lapping,"  for  one  more  story.  After  all, 
time  was  passing.  And  to-morrow  Philip  would  be 
in  San  Francisco,  then  by  noon  of  the  next  day  he 
would  sail  for  Tahiti.  Isabel  decided  once  more  to 
keep  her  mind  employed  during  her  husband's  absence. 
Madame  pined  to  play  cribbage,  and  evening  was  well 
spent  before  the  two  friends  bade  each  other  good  night. 
The  old  French  woman  had  won  several  rubbers  and 
retired  in  high  spirits,  while  the  younger  one  went 
softly  to  her  boy's  bedside. 

As  usual,  Reginald  lay  tucked  in  his  white  nest  on  an 
upper  balcony.  A  half  moon  shut  out  by  falling  can 
vas  shot  beams  across  a  screen  of  interlacing  vines. 
The  sleeping  boy  was  bathed  in  radiance.  His  arms 
rested  outside  the  covers  and  one  little  brown  hand 
still  held  a  toy  locomotive.  Isabel  bent  and  touched 
her  son's  soft  brow.  His  relaxed  beauty  thrilled  her. 
As  often  before,  the  boy  reminded  her  of  Bellini's 
sleeping  child  —  the  one  lying  across  the  Madonna's 
lap  —  in  the  Academy  at  Venice.  She  had  boldly 
rebelled  that  the  wonderful  picture  was  unstarred  in  the 
great  master's  collection  of  holy  children.  To-night 
her  mother-heart  still  deplored  an  arbitrary  test  of 
art.  She  drew  aside  a  curtain,  gazing  upward  to  the 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  195 

sky.  A  star  too  brilliant  for  the  moon's  effacement 
looked  down,  while  seemingly  no  erring  human  judg 
ment  could  check  a  heavenly  tribute  to  her  sleeping 
boy.  She  went  from  his  side  strangely  happy.  But  she 
did  not  enter  Philip's  closed  room.  Rather,  she  desired 
to  shut  out  those  weeks  of  torture  and  anxiety.  She 
thought  of  Dr.  Judkin's  rash  promise,  of  the  time  when 
her  husband  would  come  back  well ;  of  his  book,  which 
she  had  fortunately  saved  from  the  flames.  And  it 
was  now  time  to  hear  definitely  from  the  manuscript; 
almost  four  weeks  since  it  had  gone  upon  its  journey 
eastward.  The  publisher  had  written  at  once,  announc 
ing  his  interest  in  Philip's  work,  yet  of  course  the  matter 
could  not  be  decided  too  hastily.  Isabel  had  waited 
patiently.  Now  that  she  was  alone  it  seemed  harder 
to  endure  a  new  kind  of  suspense.  What  if  the  manu 
script  came  back?  No!  no!  that  must  not  happen, 
not  again.  She  dared  not  dwell  on  a  crushing  possibil 
ity  and  went  to  bed,  driving  the  thought  from  her. 
After  all,  she  would  accept  Dr.  Judkin's  advice  and  take 
to  the  saddle.  She  would  ride  to-morrow  —  through 
out  the  bright  spring  morning.  Miss  Lewis,  who  had 
fortunately  returned  to  town,  should  use  one  of  the 
horses.  Then  perhaps  Gay  could  stop  for  a  short  visit 
—  stay  until  after  Philip's  boat  had  sailed.  She 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

MISS    LEWIS    was    pleased    to    accept    a  wel 
come   invitation.       Next   morning   the   two 
friends  mounted  early  for  a  canter  through  the 
valley.     Isabel  rode  her  husband's  horse,  while  Gay 
exulted  over  the  restive  temper  of  Mrs.  Barry's  more 
spirited  animal. 

"You  darling!"  she  cried,  when  finally  she  controlled 
the  pretty  creature,  too  keen  for  a  race.  Afterward, 
the  thoroughbreds  from  the  foothills  went  side  by  side. 
Miss  Lewis  was  in  high  spirits.  Love  of  action  seemed 
to  be  expressed  in  every  line  of  her  trig  little  figure. 
Isabel  felt  the  charm  of  her  friend's  free  grace,  and 
dashed  forward  with  unchecked  speed.  A  long  avenue 
lined  with  palms,  towering  eucalyptus  trees,  and  drap 
ing  peppers  reached  for  miles  across  the  valley  dressed 
for  April's  carnival.  The  air  was  intoxicating.  Mil 
lions  of  flowers  —  roses,  climbing,  climbing,  seemed  to 
blaze  a  sacrifice  to  spring.  Isabel's  heart  lightened 
with  the  glory  of  the  day.  For  the  time  being  she  for 
got  that  to-morrow  was  the  seventeenth.  That  Philip 
was  about  to  enter  the  Golden  Gate,  about  to  spend  a 
few  last  hours  in  San  Francisco  before  sailing  on  his 
long  voyage,  fortunately  escaped  her  mind.  Quick 
to  understand,  Miss  Lewis  led  the  way.  She  dashed 
onward  for  an  hour,  then  nearer  mountains  appeared 
to  turn  for  a  fresh  landscape.  All  at  once  remote, 

196 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  197 

giant,  snowclad  peaks  became  the  center  of  the  hori 
zon,  lifting  from  acres  of  dark-green  orange  groves, 
flecked  with  golden  fruit  and  snowy  blossoms.  Gay 
dropped  from  the  saddle,  while  her  horse  began  to 
graze  by  the  roadside.  Mrs.  Barry  kept  her  mount 
with  loosened  bridle.  They  had  gone  a  long  distance 
into  the  valley.  The  spell  of  spring  was  upon  them 
both. 

"It  is  all  too  lovely  for  earth!"  cried  Gay. 

"Too  lovely  for  sorrow  and  disappointment,"  Isabel 
answered.  A  shadow  passed  over  her  face.  She  was 
at  last  thinking  of  Philip. 

Miss  Lewis  impulsively  drew  in  her  horse,  springing 
to  her  seat  like  a  boy.  "Come  on,"  she  begged,  "I 
have  something  else  to  show  you."  She  stripped  off 
her  glove,  holding  up  her  hand.  "Is  it  not  a  beauty?" 
A  black  opal  surrounded  with  canary  diamonds  flashed 
in  sunlight.  "I  chose  the  ring  myself,"  she  confessed. 
"I  have  always  been  wild  over  black  opals,  have 
always  intended  to  have  one  when  I  settled  down  for 
life."  She  laughed  and  dashed  onward. 

"Tell  me  all  about  him,"  Isabel  called  out.  "I  am 
so  glad  that  you  are  happy.  I  cannot  wait, —  do  tell 
me." 

The  horses  were  now  walking  side  by  side.  Miss  Lewis 
leaned,  shaking,  over  the  pommel  of  her  saddle.  "Who  said 
there  was  a  man  in  the  story?"  she  demanded.  "How 
quickly  you  arrive  at  conclusions.  Did  I  not  say  that 
I  chose  the  ring  myself?  But  I  will  tell  you."  She 
turned  lightly  to  her  friend.  "My  engagement  is 


198  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

another  case  of  '  Marjory  Daw.'  There  isn't  any  suitor, 
only  a  ranch  of  six  hundred  acres  on  which  I  intend  to 
live  the  greater  part  of  the  year.  I  am  crazy  about  it ! 
The  papers  are  being  prepared  and  as  soon  as  I  have  full 
possession  I  shall  build  a  bungalow,  a  barn,  and  a 
garage.  My  black  opal  simply  means  that  I  am  en 
gaged  to  my  new  estate;  that  I  am  going  to  be  the  hap 
piest  bachelor  girl  in  Southern  California."  She 
laughed  gaily,  starting  her  horse  on  a  run.  "Come 
on!  Come  on!"  she  called. 

They  dashed  miles  across  the  country  before  they 
turned  for  home.  Isabel  had  no  opportunity  for  pen 
sive  thoughts.  The  sun  had  touched  the  zenith  when 
the  thoroughbreds  stood  in  their  stalls.  Luncheon 
waited  for  two  hungry  women. 

Suddenly  a  long-distance  call  summoned  Isabel  to 
the  telephone.  She  left  the  table  vaguely  conscious 
of  fresh  trouble.  The  receiver  trembled  in  her  hand, 
she  could  hardly  control  herself.  But  soon  she 
was  listening  in  rapture.  From  far-away  San  Francisco 
a  familiar  voice  vibrated  over  the  wire  —  her  husband 
spoke  to  her !  "  Catch  the  owl  —  to-night  —  join  me 
to-morrow  —  at  the  dock,"  he  implored.  She  heard 
him  distinctly,  attempted  to  answer,  when  the  con 
nection  broke.  Again  and  again  the  operator  tried  to 
restore  the  line.  Communication  with  Philip  was 
hopelessly  lost.  The  disappointment  seemed  more  than 
Isabel  could  endure,  and  she  buried  her  face  and  wept. 
The  voice  of  the  man  she  loved  still  rang  out  in  her  imagi 
nation.  She  heard  him  commanding,  begging  her  to 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  199 

come.  "I  will!  I  will!"  she  answered.  She  seemed  almost 
to  be  repeating  their  marriage  service.  "Dear,  dear 
husband,  I  am  coming.  No  power  on  earth  shall  keep 
me  from  you."  She  laughed  softly  as  she  again  caught 
the  receiver. 

"Give  me  one,  six,  double  three!"  she  entreated. 
She  hardly  breathed  while  she  waited.  A  woman's 
voice  said,  "Dr.  Judkin's  office,"  and  Isabel  an 
nounced  herself.  "The  doctor  is  occupied  with  a 
patient  —  he  cannot  be  interrupted.  Will  you  please 
give  me  your  message?"  the  attendant  answered. 

"He  must  come  —  at  once!  I  cannot  wait!"  Isabel 
begged.  "Tell  him  that  Mrs.  Barry  wishes  to  speak 
with  him;  he  will  understand.  I  cannot  lose  a  moment. 
I  am  going  North  to  join  my  husband."  Her  words 
rang  with  decision.  She  no  longer  trembled  and  her 
tears  had  been  dashed  away .  Her  cheeks  burned .  In  the 
little  closet  where  she  tarried  an  electric  bulb  blazed 
no  brighter  than  her  eyes.  Why  did  the  doctor  not 
come?  Why,  after  all,  had  she  asked  for  him?  Was 
she  not  going  to  Philip  at  once?  There  was  indeed 
no  time  to  lose  if  she  packed  for  a  voyage  and  caught 
the  evening  train  in  Los  Angeles  for  San  Francisco. 
Her  heart  thumped  like  a  trip-hammer  as  she  sat 
clutching  the  receiver,  now  fairly  glued  to  her  ear. 
And  at  last  she  recognized  the  voice  of  Dr.  Judkin  and 
repeated  her  previous  statement. 

"  I'm  going  North  to-night  —  on  the  Owl  —  to 
Philip.  He  wants  me.  He  has  just  telephoned  a  long 
distance  message.  I  am  to  join  him  to-morrow  —  at 


200  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

the  dock."  Her  voice  fairly  danced.  "Why  do  you 
not  answer?  "  she  implored.  "  You  surely  understand?  " 
"My  poor,  poor  child,"  she  heard  at  last.  "Would 
you  ruin  all  that  we  have  done?  You  must  not  go. 
Emphatically,  you  must  not  sail  with  your  husband." 
The  receiver  dropped.  Her  head  went  forward  against 
her  arms  crossed  on  the  table.  But  she  could  not  weep. 
The  luxury  of  tears  was  beyond  her  strength  to  shed 
them.  When  she  lifted  her  head  she  was  in  the  dark; 
the  electric  bulb  had  burned  out.  And  next  day,  at 
the  same  hour,  in  the  same  spot,  she  first  heard  of  the 
earthquake,  of  the  total  destruction  of  San  Francisco. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

TIME  dragged  for  Isabel.  Like  every  one  else 
with  friends  in  the  North,  she  tried  in  vain  to 
hear  directly  from  San  Francisco.  Communica 
tion  had  been  completely  cut  off  for  the  ill-fated  city; 
wrecked,  now  burning  above  the  useless  bay.  Isabel 
sat  for  hours  listening  and  waiting.  Still  no  word  from 
Philip.  The  sound  of  his  far-away  voice,  his  last 
request,  asking  her  to  come  to  him,  echoed  in  her  brain. 
She  felt  that  she  might  lose  her  reason.  All  the  fine 
courage  of  weeks  back  was  gone.  Dr.  Judkin,  Miss 
Lewis,  and  old  madame,  each  tried  in  turn  to  allay  her 
fear.  She  could  not  hope.  The  only  person  whose 
sympathy  seemed  to  be  of  value  was  Cole's,  for  the 
man  from  the  foothills  offered  to  go  North  and  hunt  for 
Philip.  "  I'll  get  into  the  city  some  way,"  he  promised. 
"If  Mr.  Barry's  on  land  I'll  find  him."  Isabel  would 
have  accepted  the  warm-hearted  offer  but  for  Dr. 
Judkin.  "Ten  chances  to  one  your  husband  was  on 
shipboard  before  the  earthquake  took  place,"  he 
stoutly  maintained.  "I  know  that  Dr.  Ward  had  at 
first  intended  spending  the  night  at  the  St.  Francis; 
then  he  changed  his  plan,  deciding  to  get  his  patient 
settled  as  soon  as  possible  in  the  steamer's  cabin.  He 
feared  the  excitement  of  the  hotel  and  felt  sure  that 
the  Tahiti  boat  would  be  lying  at  anchor."  Isabel 
did  not  reply  and  he  went  on.  "Suspense  is  hard  to 

201 


202  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

endure,  but  I  rely  on  you  to  wait  a  few  days  longer, 
when  we  are  then  sure  to  hear  something.  While 
flames  are  raging  in  the  streets,  with  dynamite  blowing 
up  blocks  of  buildings,  we  cannot  hope  for  reliable  in 
formation.  But  one  thing  is  certain  —  Dr.  Ward  is 
going  to  take  care  of  Philip  Barry.  If  the  two  men  are 
not  out  at  sea  they  are  simply  unable  to  let  us  know  of 
their  safety  on  account  of  both  martial  law  and  pre 
vailing  conditions." 

"I  should  have  gone  to  him  when  he  called  me!" 
Isabel  answered.  "  Then  I  would  have  been  there  — 
when  it  happened.  Oh,  why  did  you  keep  me  from  go 
ing?"  For  the  first  time  Dr.  Judkin  felt  unable  to 
control  his  patient's  wife.  She  was  like  another  woman 
refusing  to  accept  either  advice  or  sympathy.  Even 
the  boy  was  now  forgotten.  But  remembering  the 
long  previous  strain  to  which  she  had  been  subjected, 
he  forgave  her.  He  realized  the  strength  of  her  love, 
while  he  considered  every  available  means  for  reaching 
the  burning  city  at  once.  Finally  he  could  no  longer 
resist  Isabel's  mute  pleading.  Outside  of  professional 
obligation  he  seemed  to  see  that  she  had  suffered 
enough. 

"I  will  go  myself  —  find  out  where  he  is,"  he  offered, 
impulsively.  He  stood  looking  down  at  Philip  Barry's 
wife.  "A  special  train  for  newspaper  men  leaves  for 
the  North  to-night.  I  can  go  as  a  surgeon.  I'll  try  my 
best  to  make  you  happy  —  as  I  promised  to  do,"  he 
humbly  added.  There  was  a  lump  in  his  throat  and 
he  went  out.  Isabel,  stunned  with  gratitude,  could 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  203 

not  speak,  could  not  thank  him.  But  her  face  shone 
with  the  old  courage  of  weeks  back,  lived  through  for 
Philip's  sake. 

The  next  day  and  the  day  after  she  went  about  the 
house  as  usual,  thinking  of  others,  trying  not  to  brood. 
Reginald  enjoyed  his  evening  petting  and  in  every  way 
his  mother  seemed  to  be  the  same.  Then  gradually 
the  late  catastrophe  became  less  fatal  as  time  went  by. 
For  at  last  reliable  news  was  beginning  to  come  in 
from  the  ill-fated  city,  still  burning,  yet  under  absolute 
martial  law.  Thousands  were  now  reported  to  be  safe, 
though  homeless,  in  the  parks  and  upon  higher,  undam 
aged  ground,  beyond  the  region  of  flames.  Relief 
trains  had  gone  out  on  all  the  railroads;  a  few  of  them 
were  now  returning,  packed  with  frightened,  hungry 
refugees.  And  every  one  in  the  South  seemed  to  be 
helping.  The  call  for  clothing  for  unfortunates  had 
been  answered  generally.  Isabel  found  strange  com 
fort  in  sorting  over  her  wardrobe,  in  giving  useful  parts 
of  it  away.  Everything  suitable  for  the  dire  occasion 
was  gladly  offered.  Action  restored  her.  In  helping 
others  she  helped  herself.  Her  generosity  grew  con 
tagious  throughout  the  household.  Madame  and  the 
maids  brought  half-worn  garments  to  swell  the  size 
of  her  own  complete  pile.  Even  thrifty  Wing  became 
duly  exercised  over  the  sad  condition  of  country 
men  driven  from  San  Francisco's  Chinatown.  He 
talked  incessantly  of  the  prevalent  heathen  version  of 
the  earthquake,  which  involved  the  rage  of  an  "old 
black  cow"  beneath  the  surface.  One  morning  he 


204  THE  HIGHER   COURT 

rushed  out  of  the  kitchen  in  fresh  excitement.  A 
"cousin"  from  the  North  had  just  arrived,  transported 
South  in  a  cattle  car  filled  with  other  celestials.  Wing's 
face  reflected  the  situation  as  he  burst  forth  with  the 
story  of  his  friend's  lucky  escape.  Isabel  sitting 
alone  encouraged  him  to  speak. 

"My  cousin  velly  sad,  now  he  lose  he  business 
—  he  so  poor.  What  you  think?  Flaps  I  take  him 
lectic  car  —  go  that  Venice  —  all  same  dleam."  Wing 
referred  to  a  seaside  resort  nearby. 

Mrs.  Barry  nodded.  "You  may  have  the  day  for 
your  outing,"  she  told  him  kindly.  "One  of  the  maids 
may  take  your  place." 

Wing  beamed.  "  You  velly  good.  I  think  I  go  — 
take  my  poor  cousin  —  so  he  not  be  sad." 

"An  excellent  plan,"  said  Isabel. 

He  spread  his  hands  with  deprecating  scorn  for  un 
willing  sacrifice.  "  I  not  help  my  fliend  when  he  have 
bad  luck,  I  no  good!"  he  exclaimed.  "Now  my  cousin 
begin  all  over  —  not  one  cent!  He  tell  me  all  'bout 
that  earthquake,  so  terrible.  He  say,  glound  lock! 
lock!  lock!  all  same  ocean.  Seventeen  time!  that  old 
black  cow  kick  up,  under  that  gleat  San  Flancisco. 
That  old  cow  never  so  mad  udder  time." 

Isabel  appreciated  the  heathen  myth,  but  her  soul 
sank  as  she  thought  of  Philip.  Where  was  he?  Had 
he  felt  the  awful  shock,  been  hurt  or  killed  in  a  wrecked 
hotel? 

Wing  went  on.  "Course  I  not  b'leve  'bout  that  cow. 
Mission  teacher  say  not  so.  I  not  know.  I  jus  say 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  205 

mischief  all  done!  Flaps  old  cow  make  trouble. 
Nobody  know.  Any  old  thing !  I  say,  old  black  cow 
jus  as  good."  A  philosopher's  pucker  played  on  his 
lips  and  his  strong  white  teeth  parted  in  a  smile.  "  My 
cousin  horrible  scare;  cannot  forget.  He  tell  me, — 
all  so  happy,  down  that  Chinatown  fore  that  earth 
quake.  He  say  people  sit  up  late,  go  see  fiends;  play 
domino;  take  little  supper,  len  go  bed.  Everybody 
have  heap  fun.  Nobody  have  fear !  Pretty  soon  every 
body  wake  up  —  hear  that  noise!  be  clazy?  Old 
Chinatown  be  all  same  jag!  Glound  so  dlunk,  cannot 
keep  still.  Houses  dlunk,  too!  plitty  soon  fall  down. 
People  no  can  stand  up  —  no  can  see,  all  dark !  Big 
noise  come  out  sky;  len  fire  make  so  blight.  China 
loomans  scleam!  Little  children  cannot  lun  fast. 
Those  priest  up  Jos  House  —  no  good.  Everybody 
lun  that  bay.  No  use !  Water  mad  too.  Everything 
clazy!  My  poor  cousin  sick  inside  he  heart;  cannot 
forget." 

"By  all  means  take  him  to  Venice,"  Isabel  advised. 
And  later  she  watched  the  pair  go  forth  from  the 
garden.  Wing's  vivid  description  of  the  catastrophe 
lived  in  her  memory  all  day.  But  she  tried  to  control 
herself;  tried  to  believe  that  good  news  would  soon 
come  from  Dr.  Judkin.  Then  in  the  afternoon  a  mes 
senger  boy  brought  a  despatch.  She  tore  open  the 
envelope,  hardly  daring  to  look  within.  But  she  nerved 
herself  and  read,  "  Your  husband's  manuscript  accepted 
for  magazine,  also  for  book  form."  Philip's  friend  — 
the  editor  —  had  signed  the  golden  message. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ISABEL  held  the  telegram  to  her  lips.  She  seemed 
to  be  kissing  Philip.  "Dear,  dear  husband,  I 
knew,  I  knew,"  she  softly  murmured.  The  rest 
of  the  day  she  wandered  about  the  garden,  almost 
in  an  ecstacy  of  expectation.  Something  seemed  to 
tell  her  that  Philip  was  safe,  that  she  would  hear  from 
him.  But  evening  shadows  fell  without  a  personal 
word  from  the  North.  She  was  obliged  to  content 
herself  by  reading  the  evening  papers,  which  were 
beginning  to  contradict  certain  overwhelming  state 
ments  of  days  back.  The  hotel  that  had  totally  col 
lapsed  was  now  known  to  have  been  poorly  built  and 
was  not  the  St.  Francis,  as  formerly  stated.  Iron 
frames  of  many  buildings  had  withstood  the  earth 
quake  to  go  down  at  last  before  dynamite.  Still,  the 
list  of  dead  and  wounded  would  be  a  long  one.  Nothing 
could  be  definitely  settled  until  after  flames  had  ceased 
to  lick  through  deserted  streets.  Suffering  was  in 
tense  on  every  side.  Children  had  first  seen  the  world 
under  its  open  sky.  Women,  without  beds  to  lie  upon, 
had  given  birth  in  the  open.  Yet  it  seemed  to  be  a 
time  when  the  best  part  of  human  nature  revealed  a 
noble  side.  Already  hope  was  beginning  to  stir  in 
camps  where  ruined  families  clung  lovingly  together. 
Isabel's  eyes  grew  moist  as  she  read  a  thrilling  story  of 
heroism  and  courage. 

206 


THE   HIGHER  COURT  207 

Miss  Lewis  had  gone  back  to  the  hotel,  and  when 
madame,  complaining  of  a  headache,  kept  her  room, 
Isabel  found  herself  alone.  But  one  thought  now 
absorbed  her  mind.  Every  moment  she  hoped  for  a 
telegram  from  Dr.  Judkin.  Then  suddenly  Wing 
again  stood  before  her.  He  had  returned  from  his 
day's  outing  and  his  countenance  shone  elate.  Evi 
dently  he  had  fulfilled  a  purpose  and  brought  new 
strength  to  the  fainting  heart  of  his  unfortunate  friend. 
As  in  the  morning,  Isabel  encouraged  him  to  talk. 

"I  come  tell  you  —  clause  you  so  solly,"  he  began. 
"Plitty  soon  I  sure  you  hear  you  husbland  —  all 
safe!  People  say  not  so  many  kill,  after  all.  Boss  all 
light,  I  sure." 

He  tried  to  render  sympathy  and  his  attempt  was 
not  repulsed.  "And  you  took  your  cousin  to  Venice?  " 
Mrs.  Barry  kindly  questioned. 

Wing  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  shook  his  head. 
He  had  lately  cut  off  his  cue,  and  now  stood  politely, 
with  a  gray  "  Fedora  "  hat  in  one  hand.  "  Jus  this  way," 
he  explained.  "I  decide  —  not  take  my  cousin  that 
Venice  —  all  same  dleam.  Too  much  expense,  I  say. 
More  better,  not  fool  money,  these  hard  time.  I 
count  up.  Must  spend  two-dollar-half  —  go  that  sea 
shore.  Too  much,  I  say.  My  poor  cousin  have  no 
good  shoe,  no  decent  cloe,  jus  old  thing  —  all  tear. 
I  say  we  not  go  foolish  place  after  all.  I  tell  my  fiend 
we  stay  Los  Angeles  —  get  cheap  dinner,  len  go 
church.  I  say  Plesbyterian  Mission  more  better, 
not  much  expense.  Too  much  sorrow,  I  say.  No 


208  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

time  go  that  Venice  —  all  same  dleam.  Better  hear 
'bout  heaven." 

Mrs.  Barry  listened  gravely.  Wing  gradually  pre 
pared  his  denouement. 

"Plitty  good  time  —  all  same  business,"  he  con 
tinued.  "You  see?  My  cousin  have  ole  shoe  —  can 
not  las  velly  long.  I  jus  take  him  that  shoe  store — 
see  lindow  —  all  so  full." 

"I  understand,"  said  Isabel.  "You  bought  your 
friend  a  pair  of  shoes  instead  of  taking  him  to  Venice?  " 

Wing  smiled.  "All  same  yes,"  he  qualified.  "I 
find  that  shoe  store  —  tell  all  'bout  my  cousin.  I  say 
my  poor  cousin  velly  poor;  have  no  shoe  —  claus  he 
all  bloke  up  that  earthquake.  That  shoeman  velly 
kind,  give  my  fiend  fine  Mellican  shoe,  light  away  — 
not  take  money.  Len  we  go  down  street  —  tly  get 
new  hat.  Big  lindow  so  full !  many  nice  hat  —  heap 
style.  We  stan  long  time,  look  in.  Plitty  soon  man 
come  out  —  smile,  ask  what  we  want.  I  say,  '  My 
poor  fiend  bloke  up  that  earthquake;  have  no  good 
hat/  Len  man  say,  'Come  in  get  fit.'  I  say,  'No 
money.'  Man  say,  'All  light;  earthquake  not  come 
velly  often.'  My  cousin  so  happy.  After  while  he 
all  fix  up.  New  coat,  new  shirt, —  everything  all 
clean.  Len  we  go  down  Chinatown,  get  dinner;  go 
mission.  Pleacher  say  heaven  more  better;  not  any 
earthquake  —  not  any  big  fire.  Pleacher  say  no  old 
black  cow  kick  up;  so  solly  China  people  tell  that 
story.  Jus  be  good,  he  say.  Be  kind,  help  that  sorrow 
up  San  Flancisco." 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  209 

Isabel  had  listened  throughout  with  keenest  interest. 
At  another  time  she  might  have  found  it  difficult  to 
control  her  countenance.  To-night  she  could  not  laugh. 
Almost  for  the  first  time  she  realized  the  meaning  of 
"the  brotherhood  of  man."  She  found  her  purse 
and  sent  a  liberal  donation  to  celestials  lately  en  route 
in  the  cattle  car.  "Relieve  your  friends  as  much  as 
possible,"  she  commanded.  "  You  may  take  to-morrow 
off  and  spend  the  money  as  you  see  best.  Those 
of  us  who  can  must  help." 

The  simple  kindness  of  her  words  fell  clearly.  Wing 
went  out  from  her  presence  as  one  entrusted  with  a 
grave  commission.  She  sat  on  with  her  thoughts. 

Suddenly  she  was  depressed  beyond  all  control. 
Joined  to  her  longing  for  Philip  was  the  dread  that  he 
would  never  be  able  to  forget  that  he  had  once  been  a 
Catholic  and  a  priest  of  the  Church.  And  she  had 
made  him  forsake  his  calling.  Again  and  again  she 
repeated  the  publisher's  telegram  aloud.  She  tried  to 
tell  herself  that  when  Philip  came  back  he  must  see 
his  way  at  once  to  go  on  with  lite.  He  would  find  his 
work  appreciated,  his  book  accepted.  Then  he  would 
surely  continue  to  write  —  become  noted.  Yet,  per 
haps  authorship  might  not  satisfy  him.  The  man  who 
formerly  moved  large  audiences  with  his  impassioned 
sermons  might  not  after  all  make  a  success  in  literature. 
She  recalled  the  first  time  that  she  had  heard  Philip 
address  a  congregation.  His  clear,  eloquent  handling 
of  a  great  ethical  subject  had  delighted  her.  Sitting 
in  a  pew  with  devout  Catholics,  she  had  been  glad  to 


210  THE   HIGHER  COURT 

forget  the  High  Mass,  which  she  did  not  understand, 
and  follow  the  speaker  in  the  pulpit.  She  had  felt  that 
her  former  lover,  still  her  friend,  had  found  his  natural 
profession,  for  even  before  ordination,  Philip  —  too 
young  for  a  priest  —  was  permitted  to  preach. 

To-night  Isabel's  thoughts  wandered  back  to  an 
earlier  Sunday  in  Venice  —  in  St.  Mark's  —  when 
they  had  gone  together  to  vespers.  Philip  had  then 
jestingly  declared  that  but  for  her  he  would  go  into  the 
Church.  "  I  would  like  to  preach  at  least  one  sermon 
as  compelling  as  the  one  we  have  just  heard,"  he  told 
her,  as  they  floated  away  in  their  gondola.  Now  his 
old  words  passed  through  her  mind.  A  strange 
humility  possessed  her.  Again  she  lived  over  those 
happy,  youthful  days  in  Venice.  Still  of  all  the 
churches  abroad,  of  all  the  services  she  had  witnessed, 
San  Marco  with  the  afternoon  in  question  stood  out, 
apart  from  other  Romish  background.  At  the  time, 
Isabel  caught  a  new  view  of  the  Catholic  Church  in 
Europe.  For  at  midsummer  vespers  there  had  hardly 
been  a  suggestion  of  the  pomp  and  ceremony  which  on 
stated  occasions  is  supposed  to  make  St.  Mark  turn 
over  in  his  coffin,  when  clouds  of  incense  pour  through 
open  doors  into  the  piazza. 

On  that  August  evening  all  had  been  so  simple  — 
even  without  a  vested  choir.  Informality  prevailed 
throughout  the  humble  audience.  Every  one  moved 
his  chair  at  will  to  the  side  of  some  friend.  Women 
used  their  fans  and  whispered  discreetly  to  one  another. 
There  were  few  "Sunday  hats."  Dark,  uncovered 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  211 

heads  and  black  crape  shawls,  richly  fringed,  worn 
corner  wise,  as  only  Venetian  maids  can  wear  them, 
discounted  tawdry  finery.  Young  men  and  little  chil 
dren  sat  on  the  pulpit  steps.  Every  one  sang  from  the 
heart.  Wonderful  Italian  voices  rose  in  natural  har 
mony;  then  at  last  the  patriarchal  shepherd  of  the 
gathered  flock  came  slowly  forward.  The  beautiful 
old  man  wore  no  embroidered  vestments  on  that  sum 
mer's  afternoon.  Sheer,  spotless  white,  showing  but  a 
line  of  scarlet  beneath  the  lace  around  his  hands,  alone 
defined  ecclesiastical  rank.  Yet  he  was  strangely  grand 
in  the  evening  light  of  the  golden  church.  A  loving  hush 
pervaded  San  Marco  as  he  leaned  over  the  pulpit,  look 
ing  down  upon  his  children.  Isabel  had  never  forgotten 
either  the  sermon  or  the  marvelous  voice  of  the  speaker. 
To-night  it  came  to  her  that  to  be  able  to  guide  one's 
fellowmen  to  higher  ideals  through  spoken  words,  was, 
after  all,  a  God-given  gift.  And  she  had  ruined  Philip's 
opportunity.  She  asked  herself  a  hard  question.  If 
he  came  back  with  his  heart  still  turning  to  a  natural 
calling,  could  she  help  him?  At  last  she  felt  his  inborn 
tendency;  the  early  religious  background  which  in 
fluenced  his  temperament.  Things  entirely  outside  of 
her  own  experience  had  always  been  vital  to  the  man  she 
loved.  If  he  came  back  to  her  uncertain  and  wavering 
in  view  of  returning  health  and  implied  difficult  con 
ditions,  she  must  give  him  up.  At  last  the  situation 
seemed  plain.  But  she  was  bitter  withal.  Philip's 
God  was  hard;  she  could  not  understand  the  miserable 
decision  forced  upon  her  as  she  sat  alone. 


212  THE  HIGHER  COURT 

Twice  she  tried  to  go  above  to  bed,  yet  something 
held  her.  Hours  wore  on.  She  felt  cold  and  started  a 
fire.  The  heat  from  the  hearth  sent  her  into  heavy, 
desperate  slumber.  She  heard  no  sound.  Philip  en 
tered  softly  and  alone,  for  Dr.  Judkin  had  hurried  away. 

And  as  he  waited  —  transfixed,  he  thought  of  that 
other  night  when  he  had  stood  outside  the  curtains, 
looking  in  at  the  woman  he  dared  not  touch.  Then 
slowly  Isabel  opened  her  eyes,  saw  that  her  husband 
had  come;  felt  that  a  miracle  had  restored  his  power  to 
love.  Renunciation  of  a  dark  hour  was  forgotten  in  a 
low,  glad  cry.  Philip  held  her  as  never  before.  The 
strength  of  his  arms  made  her  dumb  with  joy.  She  could 
not  speak.  Her  husband  led  her  to  the  divan  and  she 
listened  to  his  voice,  his  words.  She  heard  him  en 
treat  her  to  forgive,  to  live  anew. 

She  felt  that  nature's  rending  soul  had  tried  their 
appealed  case  to  enjoin  his  human  need.  Humility 
charged  his  fresh  purpose  as  he  tenderly  pleaded  for  time 
to  prove  the  revelation  of  terrible  days  back. 

Later  when  she  told  him  about  the  acceptance  of  his 
book  he  listened  incredulously. 

Suddenly  he  understood.  "You  kept  it  from  de 
served  oblivion?"  he  said  at  last.  A  fond  smile  played 
on  his  lips.  "What  have  you  not  done  for  me?"  He 
kissed  away  her  denial  of  all  personal  influence.  "  Take 
me  back  on  trust,"  he  implored.  "I  ask  only  for  the 
stimulant  of  your  faith;  then  perhaps  —  perhaps  I  may 
please  you,  do  something  worth  while." 


THE  HIGHER  COURT  213 

Isabel  knew  that  his  secularization  had  been  sanc 
tioned  by  The  Higher  Court.  The  years  to  come  held 
glad  significance  for  them  both. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9-35»i-8,'28 


1499                   ?tt    - 
i EL 

.1      court. 


£**"££"  ?.E.GIP.NAL.  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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